


If We Were Wrong

by Summerlin



Series: Redemption Arc [6]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: A Little Less Sixteen Candles A Little More "Touch Me" (Video), Alternate Universe - A Little Less Sixteen Candles (Music Video), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But I'll be real, Drabbles, F/M, Gen, I mostly think about these on my work commute, I'll keep adding tags and pairings as I write, M/M, Mostly after the train business and Pete found them, Multi, Other, Protective Pete Wentz, Redemption to Sea Change is set in stone, Spencer Smith is too pure for this world, There are many possibilities and playing around with their characters, Vampire Brendon Urie, Vampire Pete Wentz, Who knows who will show up and how?, William Beckett is a real bastard, but I think at this point the relationships are understood and fleshed out., everything after this is just blowing smoke up my own ass, fight me, it's for funsies, look at how they massacred my boy, mostly - Freeform, shits and giggles, short and sweet, sometimes it'll be real fuckin bleak
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:14:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Summerlin/pseuds/Summerlin
Summary: Redemption-verse DrabblesThese are in no particular order, a series of episodes and what-ifs.-Warning for flashbacks of non-consensual abuse.
Relationships: Brendon Urie/Pete Wentz, Linda Ignarro/Spencer Smith, Spencer Smith/Brendon Urie
Series: Redemption Arc [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/849381
Comments: 7
Kudos: 5





	1. Spencer’s Flaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bleak, alternate outcome of Sea Change. Canon-Divergence of a Canon-Divergence.

Ennis House

He doesn’t miss the glances stolen by the other guests, how they parted for us. We're gods, he often says. How was that not clear? How dare they look. _How dare they._

Brendon’s already scanning the crowd at the other end of the pool, and I don’t miss the ravenous hunger in his eyes, the way he chews his lip as he assesses tonight’s offerings. But I miss him. I miss _my_ Brendon. My boy. It’s been days since I last felt him. When he whispered my name in his sleep and didn’t recoil when my fingers brushed his. I drink up every fleeting moment to feel his warmth before he’s pulled back again like the tide.

Tonight, I’m starving.

I can’t look at him for too long and stare out at the city lights instead, trying to feel as bored as he thinks I am. Can’t let him know, can’t let him suspect. The proximity is enough to satiate the aching in my bones, as much as I know he won’t reciprocate if I just reach out. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t like to be touched. Bren always liked the contact, needed it.

No.

Shove it down, Spencer. You’re not weak.

Fuck, I need a drink.

I’m needed as he tilts his head closer and I finally turn back to look, glancing over my shoulder to the one couple that are determined not to look at us. It likes the challenge. It whispers in my ear, coaxing and reminding me of the euphoric release I feel when a pulse fades under my hands and I can’t deny that. But it full on dares me, smirking at me with Brendon’s face. My gut twists with want because I know he’s still in there, watching me follow it and engage in such horrible things. I know he’s disappointed in me.

Please just kill me, he’d probably say.

I nod and look back out at the view, feeling him pull away. I need to follow. It expects me to follow like the guard dog I am which is such a fallacy, it’s almost hilarious. It can’t know what I know. It can’t know of the paralyzing battles I’ve won, how I crawled out of that black, inky pit bloodied and scarred with my sanity intact and I’m in the driver’s seat again, in control. The images of Pete’s corpse on the highway are burned in my memory, the sound of Andy’s screams and Joe’s writhing limbs under my hands as they died still haunt me. I wanted to rip Brendon’s throat out in his sleep, make it suffer the way Pete did bleeding out on the pavement, but it doesn’t need to compel me. No. Just a touch will do. Just a touch will make me stay and obey, just for another hit and feel his presence again.

The boy separates from his date with a promise of a refill, but I’ll make him break it as I follow his wild head of hair through the narrow stone hall. Brendon doesn’t deviate from his path to the woman, coaxing and guiding her to follow. I shove him against the wall and want to look away. He doesn’t deserve this. I hope he sees the remorse in my eyes one last time before my hand covers his mouth, and my soul claws at my insides as it dies just a bit more when I order him to scream as Brendon expects me to. He shouldn’t have to ask. I should know these things.

The muffled sound rattles against my fingers and hear their heartbeats pound in tandem in my ears. The poisonous whispers validate my release when I take the bite, drinking like my life depends on it even though I know the night’s only just begun. That corrupted, decayed part of me delights in the violent spasms of his shoulders, trying to fight back from under my grip on him. The beast settles as his heart stops and I drink my fill before dropping the corpse against the floor to let the other vampires clean up after us. As they should, Brendon says.

They know their place. And I know mine.

I lean down as Brendon takes his time with his slow torture of her to go through the man’s wallet. I pocket what little cash he has and fish out the driver license to get a name and add it to my growing list of victims before I toss the plastic card into the fireplace back at the house like I’ve done with all the others.

His name was Ian. Sorry, Ian. I’m sure you had a bright future.

“Do you want some frozen yogurt later?” I ask dryly, turning the paper punch card over to read the fine print. He was so close to the free cup after 10 visits. Sorry, Ian.

I’m met with silence because how dare I speak, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to flinch when I turn to find Brendon watching me, eyes black and predatory after his meal. By now, I'm used to the carnage and his insatiable blood lust, but his gaze anchors me. I stare right back, waiting for him to strike. He steps closer, the body of the tanned brunette forgotten at his feet.

Don’t react. Don’t react. You have no fucking soul, Spencer. Don’t react.

My eyes trace the smear of blood on his chin, staining his lips red and angry and he’s pressing into my space now, ghosting just inches in front of me. His hand reaches out, eyes now searching, but he hesitates and I wish to god he would just touch me. Please, just hug me, scent me, hold me, touch me, anything. But he doesn’t. His hand freezes, and the air between his palm and my neck feels electric.

I’m here, Bren. I’m still here for you. I want you. I miss you.

But I stare on, bored and uninterested as my body screams inside and gags that vile voice in my head. I can’t let it know, not while it’s in control and awake. It can’t know what I know. It can’t know that I’m still here.

He steps back now, wiping the mess from his chin and averting his eyes but I saw that. I didn’t hallucinate. I hum in agreement when comments that this party is boring and a waste. He states that we’ll make an appearance somewhere on the Sunset Strip and remind them that we still own them all. I nod, do what is expected of me and follow him out, glaring at a newborn cowering in the foyer.

I fantasize about pinning him to the bed as he thinks aloud about San Francisco and Portland. I imagine the pads of his fingers pressing against the back of my neck and the gentle rumble of his voice telling me to just breathe as I drive us down the snaking path of Laurel Canyon. I try to remember the sound of his laugh and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled too wide. I imagine his hand on mine as I shift gears, keeping my eyes on the road.

I’ll wait for sunrise and keep waiting for any bit of affection he can sneak me because it was right. I’m weak and will always be weak for him. I won’t leave him, couldn’t even if I’m capable of resisting his commands. It was always him.


	2. Night Terrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving forewarning that this includes non-consensual and abuse content. I'm fully aware of the current situation happening, including the allegations against Brendon, and I still want AO3 and fic to be a place we can go to. I don't condone any of the actions brought up in the allegations. This year has absolutely sucked and it definitely feels like nothing can be enjoyed anymore, but I want to continue writing and that we all understand that this is separate from what is going on or has happened in real life. This is still a place where we can enjoy the characters we've created, even if it's a means to escape or cope. Stay healthy and safe.

My throat aches from the scream trying to force its way out, blocked by the icy hand pressed against my mouth. He grins at me, flashing those teeth of his, daggers ready to rip into me and I wish he’d just fucking try it already and quit making me wait. He always liked to tease. His hold is strong and I barely budge, squirming to try and get free. Maybe I could break free and rip that long hair of his clean off of his scalp, claw at the sharp cheekbones. One of us will give in first. Statistically, it’d probably be me. Humanity is a curse the way my muscles strain and burn when I know they’ve got more to give. _Goddammit._

If I glare hard enough, maybe it’d blow his head clean off. But he only cackles, toying with me. Please, for the love of god, just kill me. I’ll be of no use to you. Mostly a nuisance. Those eyes stare back at me, blown and predatory. There’s no soul and the void staring back at me looks hungry. 

“Are you ready to play along?” he asks, licking over his teeth. His grip on my wrists tightens and it’s been a while since I’ve felt my fingers. Are they still there? I try to move my mouth, to bite his hand and tear the flesh away if that’s what he wants so badly, but my traitorous muscles are slack. I stare harder in defiance. I’m not backing down. He should know by now that I’m a handful. I’ll kick and scream, make a scene, bite and claw. If you want someone that’ll obey, it’ll be more efficient to just fucking kill me. I’ll try to take him with me anyway. 

He moves his hand an inch and I try to bite and rip the flesh away but his grip is tight on my throat. I want to scream but there is no sound. I feel it rattling, feel my lungs burn with the effort, but it’s silent and he has the audacity to laugh. Fingernails pierce my skin and I want to cry out again. He bites his wrist and I know I don’t have much time. My focus shifts from the hand and back to his face, but the face smirking back at me is my own now. My blood runs cold.

I scream for Pete. Scream so hard my knees buckle. He’ll find me. Please. 

No, I won’t drink. Fuck you. 

I feel it, cold and viscous against my lips and smearing as he presses the open gash closer for me to obey. No, I won’t. But his nails slice into my throat once more and I want to scream again. My traitorous mouth opens and the first taste has my mind folding in on itself, falling and falling, deeper and further into the black as I suffocate. 

There’s sound to the screams now. There are hands, warm hands. Cold and warm again holding me down, holding me back. I can move again, swinging to get free and run. Just fucking run as far as I can to buy time. I hit something hard, then soft, hard again until I’m held down. Please, god, no. Not again. I can’t do this again. I can’t hurt them again. 

But it’s his voice. Gentle lips trace over my cheek through the scalding tears I didn’t know I was shedding. Spencer’s voice cuts through the screams and I want to tell him to run. I’m no longer in control. I try to thrash against the weight on my chest until Spencer’s voice calls out to me again. 

_We’re here. We’ve got you. Wake up._

Wake up? 

Spencer’s bed head comes into focus as I fight for breath and I feel the gentle press of his palm against my chest. I don’t understand. This isn’t me. I was falling again. I’m not here. But I am as I feel Spencer’s fingers gliding through my hair, whispering soothing words in the dark. Pete watches me in horror and I feel his hands firm around my wrists to pin me down. Was it me? Oh god, what did I do? 

The sheets are soft and pillow firm under my head. My camera lies on the bedside table next to my phone resting on the charging pad and a framed picture of Spencer and me in...Arizona? I remember Arizona. The laurel beams and white stucco walls of our bedroom protect us. I’m...I’m not in Chicago. There’s no hint of the Old World in this room, only clean lines, desert shades. _This is home_. LA. Safe. I’m...I’m safe. Spencer pulls back to sit up and check me over but Pete’s grip doesn’t relent. He’s not William. He’s not Carden or Siska, I know this. But no. 

“Please let me go.” I sob, and Pete’s face falls, backing off like he could suddenly read minds and not missing the fear written all over my face. I can’t stop the shaking as the adrenaline courses through my veins to the frantic rhythm of my heart and it’s suddenly such a relief to be helpless and human. I’m not as much of a threat. My throat feels raw and I reach up to try and feel for cuts, marks, tenderness, but my screams were effective enough even if I couldn’t hear them. But Pete did. My brothers heard me. They found me. 

I’m thankful for the dark so that maybe I could hide my shame, keep some of my dignity from the harsh bedroom light, but I feel smaller. It feels empty. Spencer moves to get up but I can’t lose that warmth. He needs to be real. I reach out for the hem of his shirt to anchor him, giving a tug in hopes that it’s an obvious request. But it’s not enough when he settles back in beside me. It should be easier. We’ve been doing this for years, but I need someone more concrete. Pete is immovable, impervious, the one person William feared and had nothing left to lose. And he loves me. I’m missing him. 

He looks resigned that his job is done and he’s fulfilled his purpose, as if he’s intruding, but no. I need him. I need both of them. Spencer’s already throwing the duvet back over us, but I reach out and I still can’t stop the shaking. He dismisses it but I can’t feel safe without him. I can’t know it was all just in my head without Pete there to stop me. “Don’t go.” I plead, and it sounds so wrecked with my voice so raw, but I reach out to him from under the duvet. 

He considers a moment before going to pull the curtains shut at the windows and climbs in to hide under the sheet. He doesn’t face me but it’s all I need and feel the solid curve of his back against my head and Spencer’s hand at my neck. It may be crowded now, but it’s safe. I can’t be touched with my brothers around. No one would dare. 


	3. The Devil is Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ouch.

_He wakes with his arms bound, alone in the dark that feels so bright he squeezes his eyes shut. He tugs against the Kevlar straps, arching up from the concrete floor to take in a breath of the freezing air that expands the useless lungs and chokes him instead. He drowns with every breath, feeding the burn in his throat and hot needles in his veins. Pete prays that he’ll just pass out and return to that warm, quiet place, the one where he didn’t have to think or care. He writhes and tugs against the restraints again. He’s never been in this room alone before. How long has he been here?_

_The taste of blood lingers on his tongue. It’s bitter, almost rotten. It can’t be his. The familiar, rich, copper flavor he’d remembered after numerous right hooks to the face was absent. This wasn’t his blood. Whose? Where was he last?_

_It's not his blood._

**_It's not his blood._ **

_But he needs more._

_The thought smothers him against his will, reaching down to squeeze his heart in a vise and drag him down. He’s one of them. He’s no better than them with these foreign instincts baiting his attention. He can smell them. If he can get free, break that door down, he can find them. Hunt, dominate, feel the skin give under his teeth, and consume. Drink them all up. Feel whole. There is no corner or crevice in the warehouse his brothers can hide from him. This beast is clever. Pete thought he was clever once, but that’s the pride talking. That pride got him killed._

_Anger floods his senses and pulses to the heartbeats behind his eyes. The memory engulfs him and pain singes his skin at the pinched, angry scar at his throat. That pride and satisfaction of spitting the mouthful of holy water and watching Carden’s face blister and burn had blinded him, leaving him vulnerable when Beckett took him from his left flank. He remembers the bite, the deep tug of teeth that ripped through flesh and dragged him down to the icy gutter. He resisted against the stone grip of his attacker, attempting to break free, but the movement only compounded the crushing pain of the fangs embedded in this throat. When he was thrown aside and held down again, the initial impact of his head against the concrete wasn’t that noticeable and he took what little pleasure he could at staring William down with as much hatred as he could muster. For a moment, it was worth it. The black, cold pools of William Beckett’s eyes didn’t have the same effect on Pete as they did with those of lesser will. As much as the rumors and legends suggested that Beckett could very well be the Devil himself, Pete knew better. He was just a prick._

_William was human once upon a time. Pete was sure of that. Every vampire Pete had come across and turned to ash was once human. And Pete took it to heart when Patrick once said that the Devil was beautiful and cunning, though it was most likely a joke at the time. It seemed to make sense. Since then, he knew William Beckett was not the Devil, certainly not beautiful and absolutely fallible. As he bled out, the warm euphoria crept on him as fast as his smile did. He wouldn’t give Beckett the satisfaction of fear in his final moments and the bitter disappointment registered loud and clear on the monster’s face. His brothers would continue after he was gone and the idea of death and finally taking a rest was suddenly the most enticing thing in the world. It would be over soon._

_But William reaches behind him, and despite Pete’s vision going in and out of focus, he recognizes the dark shag of hair pressed flat under one of those ridiculous ivory derby hats. He’d bet his soul that William Beckett wasn’t the Devil, but Brendon sure as hell was. Lucifer was once God's favorite, the brightest and most beautiful of all the angels. Whether in heaven or hell, the devil had always been beautiful. He gazed at Pete over William’s shoulder with an almost begrudging curiosity, as if he really had something better to do at that moment. A new weight pressed against Pete’s chest that he was sure wasn’t William’s knee keeping him pinned. Pete was used to carnage by then and didn’t bat an eye to the red stains on Brendon’s chin. Cruelty had now replaced the warmth in Brendon’s eyes. The heartache began to burn as hot and fast as the tears that blurred his vision, the guilt and anger choking him as much as he wanted to scream. It felt wrong. Brendon simply watched him as he bled out with a sneer of disdain. It all felt wrong. This wasn’t his brother. Pete thought the weeks of searching had prepared him for the worst after Brendon went missing. He was prepared to find Brendon rabid and feral in a rail yard somewhere or even a rumor of his death. Even a preternatural suicide. But not this. He’d never consent to this. Cruelty is not in his nature. It had to be a trick. This wasn’t his brother. Brendon’s voice was poison in his ears as he asked William if Pete was even worth the time._

_Brendon looked at him as if he were nothing, an inconvenience. Pete didn’t want the last memory of his brother to be that of a monster, a beast. Brendon deserved better. Pete was too careless. He wasn’t smart enough to put him on a bus somewhere safer from the start, wasn’t strong enough to refuse his pleas to take part in the hunt, wasn’t fast enough to save him the first time, and wasn’t vigilant enough to keep what little spark of humanity Brendon had left. Brendon had always deserved better, and Pete was never enough. The tears poured across his cheeks and he should’ve felt embarrassed for showing such weakness in the face of the enemy, but if the one pure thing in his life could be dragged down into the flames, what would it matter? The euphoria bled into a bitter ache, a longing. He wanted to reach out, tell him how he failed him, how much he loved him. But his limbs were so heavy and there was no reason for the hand around his throat. That warm, quiet, darkness was where he was headed anyway. That was his punishment. He’d gladly take it. Blood filled his mouth as he began to black out, falling deeper and deeper into that dark pit with only the image of Brendon’s cold stare._

_The memory releases its suffocating hold on him. The horror begins to set in as he runs his tongue over the razor points of his teeth, feeling foreign and too big his mouth. His gums itch. The hunger grabs his attention again and grips his insides in a vise to double over. Rip, kill, consume. Drink until you feel alive again._

_What had he done?_

_He tugs at the restraints again without success and thank God for that. No, fuck that. God abandoned him years ago. This was his own doing. All of it. His fucking hubris. His stupid fucking pride had killed him and was going to salt the earth behind him. It had already taken the innocent. Pete charges for the door, aiming his head toward the metal surface in hopes the impact will smash his skull to pieces and end it. Cut the cancer out before it takes the body. The impact resounds through the room like a thunderclap, barely denting the surface, but his neck snaps instead. He doesn’t go back to that quiet place. He’s still in the concrete room. The vertebrae snap back and realign. He grunts and gets to his feet again, using this new speed to his advantage for another_ _attempt_ _._

_Boom. Snap. Again._

_Boom. Snap. Again._

_His shoulder takes the brunt of the impact now to dislocate and slide back into place, tearing what remains of his sleeve that’s turned rancid with blood and gutter. The door remains. He remains. Sobs turn to growls more animal than human that rip through his new teeth with every crack his shoulders make against the door. That hunger calls to him again. It knows his name. It knows how weak he is._

_Brendon is lost. His brothers will fear him. He’s in hell and it won’t let him go._


	4. Linda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's one of the gang and I love her. This ended up being a study of Pete's love language but I'm not sorry. Best Friends Forever.

The story goes that it’s 15 minutes to anywhere in LA. In the twisting and snaking concrete jungle of the freeways and boulevards, there’s always an alternate route to where you’re going, always a plan b. 

When Spencer sends the selfie to Linda after days of daring himself to press that little green arrow, she makes it to the front gate in 10. The shrill scream of his name rings out against the tall security bushes. Her car is still running in the driveway when she runs out to meet him at the front door, pushing her glasses up against her haphazard bun when she lunges at him like a leopard and crushes him in a hug. He relishes the soft, worn-down fabric of her sweater. Hot tears stream down her face, flushed and grinning and her grip on his shoulders is firm, trying to assure herself that he’s actually here. He’s solid and warm and breathing and heart beating. Definitely real when he grunts under the pressure. 

She pulls back, looking him over and takes in the slight imperfections of his skin, the clear blue of his eyes, one incisor slightly larger than the other in the blinding smile of his blunt teeth. He’s here. Holds her the same way, ghosts his fingers over the same spot on her chin. It’s him. 

Her lip quivers, biting to keep it still and behave. She’s not twelve. “S-Spence...Spencer, you’re...you’re human? What did you d-do?” He only shrugs, blushing violently as a soft chuckle escapes his lips, almost incredulous at the sight of her. 

“I stopped questioning shit years ago. The universe is funny that way.” But his face falls, casting his eyes down with shame. “We didn’t mean to disappear like that. There was no way for us to reach out to you but you didn’t deserve to be ghosted like that. _Ghosted_...Am I even using that in the right context?” 

He melts at her laugh, grinning with her as she shakes her head and pulls him into another hug, clinging. His heart flutters against her breast, breathes her in, and though his senses are dulled, the clean scent of her detergent and citrus tang of her moisturizer stills something wild in his chest. 

“Am I keeping you from anything? I know it’s late.” he states, nose buried in her hair. 

She shakes her head fervently, wiping furiously at her cheeks and trying to shake off embarrassing and overwhelming waves of joy that are blocking all attempts at rational thought. “Buying things I don’t need on Amazon and binging Friends. I’m far too busy.” she jokes, leaning and nudging his shoulder. 

Brendon’s voice calls out from the front door, carding a hand through his dripping hair and clutching a towel around his waist. “Is she staying, Spence?” 

Brendon hits the wall trying to keep his balance when Linda tackles him. Her running start did not help in the slightest. They hug her and hold her the same, but they’re softer, pliant. Brendon kisses her cheek, eyes bright as he takes her in and she marvels at the scruff on his chin. “You have freckles! I can’t believe it!” 

She’s ushered inside, sandwiched between them as they try to walk her to the backyard. Pete pushes up from the sofa to greet her, and after Spencer’s encouraging nudge and a mumbled apology, she takes his hand. And the change in them is striking next to Pete. He almost glows in the low light of the floor lamp, feeling aloof and ethereal. 

Brendon guides her to the pool, pleading for her to join him. She compromises to dipping her feet in, and it’s hard to resist as he floats at her ankles, keeping a loose hold on her calves and gazing up at her with those deep browns. The pleasantries are long forgotten as the conversations flow. Pete had maintained his distance until Spencer pulled him close, and Linda brushes her hand against his. For a moment he recoils but doesn’t run when he’s reassured by his brothers’ warm smiles. There’s nothing she’d ask of them that wasn’t within reason, Brendon assures, but Pete can’t hide the embarrassment of his behavior the last time they met. If anything, Pete is the one that shouldn’t be trusted nowadays. 

Pete smirks, leaning in curiously when Brendon drifts closer against her knees with a playful grin. “Are you hungry? I know a few places that are still open.” he says, biting his smile. 

Linda rolls her eyes fondly. “Of course, you do.” 

Burritos are delivered within the hour, eaten poolside. Pete shrugs off her forlorn look of him having been left out of their late-night feast, though it’s short-lived as she’s divebombed and pulled into the pool by his brothers in fits of giggles and shrieks. 

\- 

The sky is fading to darker shades of pink when Pete emerges from his bedroom, sliding against the wall for balance as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. Despite the sight of Pete in a second-hand Judas Priest shirt and in such a vulnerable state, she’s still apprehensive of his presence. Spencer had insisted that he wasn’t a threat, that he was just an asshole. He waves a greeting and yawns, flashing those lethal teeth. Linda’s instincts tell her to run. 

She tries to hide her embarrassment when Brendon almost has to pry himself from her arms. He presses a kiss to her cheek, thanks her for dinner, and excuses himself to clean up his mess in the yard left from the afternoon, leaving her to offer Pete a forced smile as she resumes clearing the table. He’s careful to avoid the brighter shafts of light on his way to assist her and gathers the excess forks and cups. He follows her to the sink, lingering in her line of sight to hand her the leftovers and rinse. 

“I smelled it earlier. Vodka pasta?” he offers as she takes the cups. She nods. 

“I was going to make a cheese board but Spencer said that Brendon doesn’t--” 

“Eat meat.” Pete finishes, nodding with a sleepy grin. “Vegetarian. Isn’t that funny?” Linda only shrugs, trying to focus on rinsing the plates under the faucet. Her heartbeat picks up tempo in a way that makes Pete’s stomach twist with shame. Their first meeting was more hostile than he would’ve liked, when the hunt and trauma clouded his judgement. “If you’d want to have another go at that cheese plate, I could try to find some stuff that he could eat. Some fake cheese or salami. Maybe impossible burger patties or whatever. And you can let me know if you need a hand preparing any of it.” 

Her pulse slows as she nods, and he takes another step back until it beats at a comfortable rhythm he’s used to. The silence settles. She wets her lips before adding, “Spencer wants to invest in the bar. We discussed it over dinner. I hope that’s okay.” 

Pete smiles at the thought of Spencer having responsibility, something stable. “Bar? _The bar?_ ” Linda watches him keenly as she nods again. Pete’s associated her with it since the first night, from the absurd idea he once had that she actually lived there under Spencer’s compulsion and the scent of the magnolia trees from the lounge embedded in her skin. His initial impression of her had softened and was met with the pleasant surprise that she’d returned so promptly at the first sign of his brothers. Spencer’s smile at any mention of her has been burned into his memory forever. “Of course. Makes sense to invest in something you love.” 

Pete observes Brendon cleaning the grow beds. In a few minutes, it’ll be safe for him to go out and offer assistance, but for how little is left, maybe he’s not needed. 

“It’s okay if I come by from time to time? If I’m invited?” she asks. 

He throws her a fond look and nods. “It’s entirely up to them. It’s their house, after all.” He offers a smile, and though tired and strained, she returns it at this small token of acceptance. “I trust their judgement. It’s nice to have someone around, someone close that can be trusted and... for the most part, comfortable around us. I know you were fine with them before. I’m...not much different. Promise.” He folds his arms into his shirt to stave off the anxiety, forcing the words out after he’s been working so hard to be personable lately. “I don’t let harm come to my family, at my hand or anyone else’s. As family, you’ve got a place here.” 

She stares at him for a long moment as the weight of that label settles on her. Pete suddenly looks smaller, less of a presence than before. Always on the sidelines, always watching. The other. But he’s real, too shy to look her in the eye now with a new offering of vulnerability. 

Brendon’s curses travel back to the door. Linda tilts her head, studying him as he fights with the hose caught around the corner of the deck. “It’s funny how different he is. Spencer is...Spencer. But Bren is--” 

“This is the way he used to be. Spence may have had an idea, but I knew Bren when he was human. Twenty- two, awkward, excited.” Linda’s watching him now, studying the smile that’s somewhat sad as he observes. He folds his arms to relax against the marble counter. “This is who he’s always been, just buried beneath it all.” He meets her eyes now, nodding to the window. “He never had the chance to really choose for himself. He worked at a shitty bodega when we met and was bossed around. Since he was taken, he never made his own decisions. He’s close to forty now and it’s the first time he can do what he wants. He’s a mess, but it’s who he is.” 

She blinks at him, thoughts racing. She licks her lips instead. “Forty...he...well, he looks great. There’s always a price to pay for a gift like that. You seem...fine. For the most part.” 

Pete scoffs. “Gift… I’ve seen some messed up shit. Did some messed up shit. All of us have. Spence said I got off so easy and he’s right. Our maker never let him go. It corrupted him so badly--” 

“He was kind to me.” she counters. “A little shy and weird, but kind. He didn’t seem corrupted.” 

Pete’s smirk is almost fond, a little bitter. He steps aside when Spencer comes around from the hall, hands already poised to slide his arms around Linda’s shoulders with a gentle squeeze as they watch Brendon conquer the hose and resume watering. “Bren was always kind. It’s the core of who he is and it’s gotten him into a lot of horrible shit.” Spencer frowns now. He draws Pete’s glance for a moment, catches the sad smile where the corners turn down to a faint grimace. 

“It’s noticeable now, isn’t it?” Spencer muses, working a knot out of Linda’s shoulders. “Aside from the night terrors, he isn’t holding back.” 

It’s Linda’s turn to glance between them before studying the line of Brendon’s spine through the sweat-drenched shirt. For all of that time spent together through intimate whispers and trusting, knowing glances, she’d never considered that Brendon was restraining himself beyond anything other than the same thirst Spencer confided in her about. The usual, primal thirst that dictated their lives, drove them out into the night to prey on young, beautiful virgins and other dated and cliché motivations written in dusty books. She was always outside looking in. There was an itch to be part of it, but this tainted her fantasy. 

“What was he holding back?” she asks. She doesn’t miss the look shared between the two men, that almost worried glance as Pete’s tongue darts out to wet his lips before he shakes his head. He excuses himself and mumbles something about stealing Spencer’s expensive bar soap for his shower, but Linda won’t let this go. She secures her grip on Spencer’s hand when she feels his arms begin to slide away from her shoulders. “Spencer.” 

He can’t ignore her eyes, cementing him to the spot. And what was the risk of telling her if she hadn’t spilled her guts at the start about the two strange, pale men that showed up at the bar night after night? About Pete? 

Spencer swallows the lump in his throat, pursing his lips to focus on their hands. “There are things I still don’t understand, but I know that the world Brendon escaped from, what Pete fought against...it followed them. Brendon was most susceptible to it and...sometimes I wonder if it was really him or that thing that wanted to turn me. What he gave me and what he held back...it...it could’ve been catastrophic.” He presses closer, threading their fingers. “We don’t have that looming over us anymore. And even if it was, there isn’t a lot we can do while we’re human, not with Pete around. We’re not taking this second chance for granted and it’s nice to see Bren not living fear. And it’s a little funny, isn’t it?” 

They glance back out to the yard. The tools have been cleared and now Brendon collapses onto the grass, chest heaving as he catches his breath. Pete steps out now, looming over him in the fading glow of the sunset with an amused grin before helping him up. Linda can’t help but smirk and nod in agreement. 

\- 

Pete didn’t recognize the number, but deduced from the slurred voicemail that it was Linda and she needed a ride. And she was drunk. Even if she wanted to call Spencer or Brendon, Joshua Tree was still almost two hours away, and two hours too long for her to be stranded on Sunset alone. He’s thankful that he doesn’t have to breathe when he finds the valet outside of Nightingale when the overpowering scents of sweat, liquor, and a dash of cocaine could knock him off his feet. He tugs his jacket closer, sizes up the bouncer and almost snarls to let him pass. The thundering bass and chorus of heartbeats make his vision swim and he really should’ve fed, but Linda had the nerve to call and his family needed him. He’s spotted before he even acts upon the urge to throw the bouncer up against the plastered wall when his name is screeched and tackled by an armful of blonde in a silver sequin mini skirt. The urgency is quelled as Linda grins up at him and apologizes profusely for tripping in these damn heels. He has a plan already and the spare guest room has clean sheets. He can probably find a toothbrush somewhere or buy one on the way, but she’s mumbling an address in Westwood, and oh. 

She trusts him to take her home. _Oh._

He thinks it’s safer at their house. He knows the block. He can cover the weak points along the property lines. There’s a gate at least. But what would his brothers do? Would Spencer take her back to their bed? Would she even ask? He wants that peace of mind. He wants safety. 

But Linda hangs on him, looks at him with glassy, inebriated, trusting eyes, grasps his hand, and asks to go home. The other men in line display a mix of amusement, pity, and hunger as she sways against his shoulder and gives his hand another prudent squeeze. He’s memorizing her pulse and her body heat is even more inviting. He can’t refuse. 

It’s almost a hassle to get her into the front seat without hitting anything on the way or preventing a bruise from surfacing in the morning but she grins gratefully at him all the same. He only pulls over once on La Cienaga when her breath hitches to wretch up the liquor in the gutter. Then he drives a little slower. Takes the turns a little softer. She mumbles directions and continues her quest for her keys in the small clutch that couldn’t fit more than a phone and a lipstick tube. She rambles on about the friends from out of town that invited her, how they took advantage of discount shots and additional drinks bought by thirsty men at the bar, about what Spencer would do surrounded by her friends and no means of escape. And Pete listens. He catches the sweet, lazy grin that’s directed at him when she thanks him again for the ride. 

He begins to smile with her, feeling the ease as she sinks into the seat. It’s a trust he’d forgotten as the years passed. It burns hot in his chest, blooming and spreading up to the nape of his neck. She feels safe with him. This new hunger was something he thought he'd lost for good up north. 

She barks out a laugh after they pull up to the Spanish deco condos, offering to carry her up when she struggles to get her footing on the sidewalk. He ignores her hands sliding over his eyes to get a good grip when she climbs up, feels along the walls as she directs him up another flight of stairs to a black door. He doesn’t mind that she drops the keys over his shoulder with a sleepy whine and picks them up. There’s a bit of guessing between two that look like they belong to a condo before the lock gives and bumps the door open with his knee. 

He’s hit with the scent of magnolia again. He’s sure it isn’t from the obscene amount of house plants that have invaded the interior from the back balcony in their little artisan pots. There’s a dirty mug in the sink, an opened bag of goldfish crackers forgotten on the kitchen counter, and the lingering aroma of her shampoo drifts out from the bathroom door. Human is the word that comes to mind as he takes it in. Linda mumbles an apology for the mess as she hangs limp with sleep on his shoulders, but he brushes it off. It’s a comfort. He’s invited. 

He considers setting her down on the couch and arranging her as delicately as possible, but recalls all of the times he’d woken up feeling worse on the warehouse’s shitty sofa after blacking out from tequila. The memories leave a bitter taste in his mouth, worse at the thought of putting Linda through that kind of personal hell. He silences his nerves and crosses the threshold to the bedroom. He’s careful to avoid the trail of discarded clothes snaking out of the closet before he sets her down on the bed and she curls against the duvet, looking impossibly smaller. 

His skin itches, fingers twitch and veins screaming to hunt now that his task in completed, but it doesn’t feel enough. She’s not safe. He needs to know. He needs to be sure. Pete swears he’s discrete as he scopes out the condo, checking the windows and doors, scanning the tops of the loquat trees in the courtyard below and only relaxing at the knowledge that the only possible threat is the chihuahua in the ground floor unit. It better stay far away from him. But something still itches, something still nags. 

He shoots a quick text to his brother and spends longer than necessary searching for an emoji that expresses the right amount of panic and discomfort because it isn’t his place to look after this intimately. But he doesn’t leave family. There’s no response. He thinks maybe they’re out of service range. Maybe his phone is dead. Maybe Spencer’s dead. His thirst feels far away now. 

He’s not Spencer. 

But what would Spencer do? 

She needs someone lucid right now and if that’s what will protect the object of his brother’s affections, then he can step into that role. He’d do anything for Spencer. He’s really doing this for him, right? 

Her heartbeat may be slow, but it’s steady, pulsing in his ears and he counts its rhythm with another sweep of her condo. The doors are secure. Windows are sealed. He’s careful to push the array of throw pillows aside and settles in the cleared space on her sofa. Pete’s phone only shows the time and the final score of the Cubs game earlier that evening when he checks for a response again. 

The white noise of the air conditioning blowing from the ceiling vent is a welcomed distraction and he relishes the sounds that often go unnoticed. His thirst is manageable, less demanding than it was when he left the house before. And for a minute- he's sure it was only a minute- the gentle whirr of the freon tubes stirring to life behind the fridge begin to lull him to sleep. 

That minute bled into fifteen, then thirty, until he’s jerked awake by an email notification. It only takes a heartbeat, just a breath, for Pete to blink again and catch the shift in the light coming from the balcony door. He checks the time again to confirm this wasn’t some hallucination. The room was no longer tinted black, but purple. His phone’s screen confirmed 6:48 am. 

Fuck. 

Linda doesn’t realize until after she’s smashed her face pretty deep into the pile of pillows that she didn’t take her makeup off and sits up with a start. The nausea and vertigo hits immediately and in the dark, she can faintly make out the smears of mascara and lipstick on the pillowcase. She barely remembers leaving the club and how she even made it to her bedroom. And honestly, it’s too dark for her liking. In a purely regrettable move, she nearly trips on a pair of legs on her way to the window and is sure she’s on the verge of a heart attack at the thought that there might be dead body in her bedroom. Pete pulls the collar of his jacket draped over his head and blinks up at her tiredly, pulling his knees up. 

He sounds as sickly as he looks, hiding his arms under the denim fabric. “I hate that your place faces east.” he rasps. She opens her mouth to ask, but he beats her to it, sinking further into the corner. “I found some aspirin in your bathroom earlier for you and refilled your Brita pitcher. Had to be sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit in your sleep.” 

She plays through a hazy memory of last night in pieces: feeling relieved at the sight of him at the club entrance, laughing with him in his car, dropping her keys as he carried her up. And he’s still there, trapped at 10 am and starving. 

It’s instinct that she reaches out to him with gratitude and a tinge of concern that he’d stayed as long as he did and in such a state. He recoils, shielding himself from her beneath the jacket, toes curling in his socks. “I’d rather you didn’t.” he advises in a tone that’s more than a plea and a bit less than hostile. 

“Can I get you anything? Should I call Spencer or Bren?” she asks, tiptoeing to the window and checking that the curtain is secure. “Are you hungry?” 

He grunts and pulls his knees up closer but is careful to keep the jacket draped over him, folding into corner. “More tired than hungry. I like the company though.” 

“I’m catching onto that.” The grin is unmistakable in her voice, and though he’d only admit it under duress, he couldn’t help but match it. “I’m going to enjoy the longest shower of my life, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you need. Just holler if there’s anything I can get you.” And as she heads to the ensuite bathroom, she pauses in the doorway. “Thank you for coming to my rescue. I’m sure I’ll get dozens of texts about you from the girls, but I’ll be discrete.” 

The drowsiness washes over him again and he blinks slower, trying to nod in such an awkward position. The ease in her posture is infectious and he begins to relax. “Anytime. You call, and I’ll be there.” 

He succumbs to the pull of the sun and lets himself be carried away on that tide of sleep to the steady drone of her shower head and muffled voices of NPR radio through the bathroom door. 

\- 

Pete escaped the crushing pressure of his brothers’ request with the excuse that Joe needed him to enforce his duties as CFO in a convoluted meeting on expanding the body shop business to new overseas clients. Very vague. Very mature. When he could no longer look them in the eye, he’d packed a bag in a rush, sent a text and flight confirmation, and spat that the only reason Linda was coming along was that he liked her a lot more than his own brothers. He’d thrown a snarl toward Brendon the moment he felt the radiating heat of his brother’s hand on his arm, actually bared his teeth until Brendon backed off, and didn’t let the regret sink in until he was fitting Linda’s carry-on into the overhead bin. 

He knew she’d listen. He was in good company. She trusted him, never questioned him when she received the screenshot of her business class boarding pass and a simple _please_ in the text. Pete’s dedication to his family was a force to be reckoned with, Linda knew, but if she’d learned anything about him, his selflessness was also a parasite. She knew he had wants and needs that often went ignored. So, when he finally spoke up to her, something was seriously wrong. 

She never really caught his eye when they breezed through security, when he compelled the barista at The Coffee Bean to make just one more iced cold brew before they closed for the night and even stuck the straw in for her without having to ask. It had been difficult to keep up with his brisk pace to the gate. He looked like shit and kept his lips a terse line. When they finally reached cruising altitude, Pete sunk against his seat and scrubbed a hand over his face. It was the first real emotion he’d expressed since he picked her up that night. 

“Thank you. You don’t know how grateful I am that you came along.” he finally says. She considered giving him a cheeky response like she had a pretty good idea of how relieved he was for her company, but he licked his parched lips, checking that his phone was off before shoving it into his pocket. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention any of this to them. They’re probably blowing up your phone right now.” 

He didn’t move, didn’t reject the contact when she pushed up the arm rest and leaned into his shoulder. “I’m going to take a wild guess that this is not a business trip.” she muses. Pete leaned back into her and let his eyes slip shut. That’s as much of an answer as she was going get. 

When they waited for her bag at the carousel in O’Hare, she caught him glancing at the string of unanswered texts from Brendon and Spencer on her screen. He was too slow to avert his eyes and tugged on the strap of his duffel bag, wringing his hands in the sleeves of his sweatshirt. She took the hint and shut her phone off for the first time since she bought the new model and dropped it into her bag. His shoulders sagged with relief and took a step closer. 

Pete’s voice was like sandpaper with stress and thirst. “Joe has a guest room made up for you. His place isn’t far from the shop and we keep the same hours.” He stole a glace to the icy curb outside. “Did you pack a warmer coat?” When she shook her head, curling into the denim jacket she brought in her carry-on, he nodded. “We’ll pick one up for you while we’re here.” 

He was true to his word and ripped up the tag before she could catch the actual price of the down coat that was probably meant for Arctic excursions instead of March in Chicago. Despite delivering her to Joe’s loft that first night and returning the following evening at sunset more alert and put together, he looked more distraught than before. Something was weighing on him. She knew it. As grateful as she was in his diligence that she’d want for nothing, and as charming as Joe had been after an awkward introduction, it was eating at her too. 

After the dinner rush at Hampton Social, Pete attempted to smile. Linda was too horrified to reciprocate and slid the bread pudding for one off to the side to be bussed away. Everything about it was wrong now that she was familiar with what a genuine smile actually looked like on his face. “I’ve enjoyed exploring around town with you, but never heard one positive thing come out of your mouth about this city for as long as I’ve known you. Are you going to tell me what all this was for?” 

If he could look any smaller… 

Pete let out a sigh and ripped another piece of his paper napkin to pulverize between his fingertips. “I couldn’t be around them anymore. I couldn’t stand them looking at me all the time and just…expecting me to do it.” She tilted her head to study him, spotted the slight quiver of his lip. He held her gaze, revealing something she’d never seen in his eyes before. Fear. His head fell before she could call him out on it. “They want me to turn them.” Pete nodded, like her pulse was as loud in her ears as she thought it was. “They asked me, Linda. They asked, but…I just can’t.” 

Something in him breaks, choking on his own words like it was killing him to say it out loud. He tugged off the knit cap and carded his trembling fingers through his hair. Maybe she was hallucinating from the sugar in the pudding. “Turn them as in...?” 

“It’s exactly what you think.” Pete said bitterly, grimacing at the thought. 

Linda never pried into the logistics of it all, if it was even considered lore. It gave her stomach a nauseating turn if it had Pete not only disturbed but terrified. “Is it a steep price for what they’re asking for?” 

Pete sat back in his seat and blinked up at her with almost bloodshot eyes. “It’s murder, Linda. I...I can’t. Even if I absolutely hated them, if they weren’t family, I don’t have the strength.” He lost her again. It was cruel leaving her in the dark for so long. “Brendon and I were turned against our will by someone centuries older and a small army at his command. Who knows how long it took him to turn every one of them and what it took out of him. And even if it’s consensual now, it’s still murder. Once you’re like this, you’re stuck. There is no going back.” 

The heartbreak was stark in his eyes, stabbing her agonizingly slow. “But they’re human. It happened...somehow. It’s possible.” she reasoned. 

“And they’re throwing it away! What I wouldn’t give to feel the sun again, to burn my tongue on a fresh cup of coffee or never having to know what it feels like to black out from the thirst or...or just holding someone and they don’t run away. They just...want to hold you back.” His lip trembled again as he threaded his fingers. “They’re living their lives. They’re allowed to change.” 

She honestly tried to sympathize, as much as she could in her human condition. Her initial impression of Pete felt so far away in that moment and every reassurance Brendon had given her that the distant third had once been human and reckless felt more and more like reality. The cracks in Pete’s walls were growing larger now since he sent that text. “But you’re confiding in me about this?” 

He barks out a strangled laugh and the silence settles around them. His jaw sets. “You love Spencer.” She doesn’t respond, but her pulse was enough of an answer in the few beats it skipped. “What you two share is your own business, but what he’s asking goes between that.” 

“I didn’t mind how he was before. He was in control, like you are now. He can learn again.” 

“I can’t guarantee that. This isn’t like learning French. It’s challenging your nature. The thirst isn’t something you can truly command. It’s...it’s a negotiation with a starving animal.” He pauses as her discarded plate his cleared and he nods for the check, silent until their waiter disappears again. “Why he didn’t include you in this is almost insulting. He’ll outlive you, Linda.” 

There’s now a real possibility that her pudding will come back up, and she feels no shame in reaching for Pete’s untouched glass of water to drown the sense of dread. He waits patiently for her to settle and suddenly the sad line of his mouth makes sense. Spencer and Brendon had gone on for weeks hiding this, at least by her estimation. Calling her, hanging out, going through shifts at the bar with that winning smile she now realized was a lie. Pete had his quirks and eccentricities, but in her eyes, he was now the most human of them. Brendon once assured her that Pete was harmless and “don't be fooled, there’s a lot of love in that little body of his.” Brendon was only joking, but she realized how true that was. 

“W-When I first met them,” she finally says, clearing her throat. “I was so sure it was a fling and I’d get over it. They didn’t seem real and someday they’d disappear. I’d never get a text from them again like before. I thought that was it. And...shit. He’s real.” 

Pete offers her a smile again, and though strained, she felt it was genuine. “I asked you to come because I knew you’d understand.” He reaches for her now and she recoils at the chill of his fingers. But he isn’t offended, doesn’t withdraw his hand. “I love the way you make him smile. I love the way he looks at you when you speak. Watching you both live your lives is as much of a joy to me as watching Brendon finally live his. It’s why I always have a seat reserved at Andy’s lectures, or doing the books for Joe’s company and occasionally putting the fear of god in anyone that tries to embezzle from him. I can’t take part in the simple joys of existing like you do. They’re taking it for granted and you deserve more than being left in the dark like this. I love you too much to let him leave you behind.” 

There are things she wants to throw, things she wants to scream out, but Pete watches her like he understands. There are things he’s seen and done that she can’t even begin to fathom, but he’s here with her, solid and real and waiting to catch her as her world feels like it’s caving in. He’s still there as they gather their coats and apologize for taking so long to leave before the place closed up for the night. He’s still there when she slips on a patch of ice and lifts her clear off the sidewalk to catch her, but that's all it takes for the floodgates to burst. The tears break free, unstoppable and suffocating as she clings to his sleeves but he holds her steady. It all felt like it was sinking all around her, deeper and deeper into the gravity well, but Pete's arms are strong. His icy hands are gentle to brush away the tears but they refuse to stop.

"I wasted so many years on them. For him." she sobs. "Seeing him again feels like it was for nothing!"

And for a minute, Pete actually regrets confiding in her based on his brother's affections and too naïve to consider what it would really do to her. She'd always been composed, always brushed off the fear and any awkwardness, even if most of it was Pete's own doing. The attachment ran deeper than he realized, and he doesn't know if it should bother him more about the way his chest tightens. He's careful to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I don't think it was a waste." he offers. She blinks up at him with glassy eyes and it gives him enough courage to continue. "I don't think what you've felt for him has been a waste. And knowing you has not been a waste."

"What does it matter? You haven't been human in years. I don't love you like that."

Pete gives her a resigned nod. "I understand. But as family or just friends, it's my place to tell you your time hasn't been wasted. Spencer is an idiot for leaving you out of this. But I can't. You deserve to know."

On the drive back to Joe’s loft, she asks that he stay for a while longer. There’s only a moment’s hesitation before Pete wets his lips and nods. There’s still time, and even if he didn’t leave in time, Joe was kind enough to have a safe place for him in a pinch. They end up on his sofa with the weight of Linda’s head on Pete’s shoulder and the second act of _Legends of the Fall_ on Joe’s projector wall. The company was a comfort to him as always. 

When Brad Pitt comes home after years away at sea, she clears her throat to speak. “If I asked you to turn me, would you feel the same?” 

“I’d hope you’d want it for all the right reasons.” 

“Then, do you think they’re asking you for the right reasons?” Pete frowns, but doesn’t interrupt her, too tired to object. “Maybe the thought of moving on without you is something they refuse to accept.” 

“And what about you? Are you really asking or was it strictly hypothetical?” 

She snorts then, trembling against him as she giggles. “Of course it is. I can’t imagine spending forever with all of you. I’d go insane.” Pete lets out a breathy laugh and welcomes the way she curls into his side now, fitting comfortably. “I think...I’ll be okay. I’ll be angry for a while, but I think it’s better to have someone sympathize and be angry with.” 

Pete keeps her close on the flight back, testing that boundary, and she doesn’t shy away on the drive back to her condo late into the night. Though she insists she can carry her bag up herself, Pete lingers at the passenger door. “Thank you for coming along. For listening and for...not judging. You didn’t have to but you did. Just...thank you.” 

Linda sets her bags down on the curb and advances, pressing into his space and wraps her arms around his shoulders securely. He’s stiff as a board, unsure it was just for pleasantries sake until she tightens her hold, and _oh_. He returns the hug, scenting her collar for good measure. Her brows are drawn when she finally pulls away to tuck her hair back and collect her bags, but he can see through that scowl. He can see the grin fighting its way through. “If you need to talk again, or just get away, let’s not elope so far next time. You vampires are so dramatic.” 

“Aren’t we though?” Pete smirks, all teeth


	5. Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft things. Fragile things.

Pete comes in late from his flight, dumping his bags by the door and lets his feet carry him to the back deck by the comforting ribbon of Spencer’s scent. The grounding aroma of bergamot welcomes him, letting himself fall against the solid weight of Spencer’s shoulder on the top step. His nose smashes against the worn fabric of the flannel and grumbles. His dead weight begins to crush Spencer’s arm until he’s nudged upright but Spencer is glued to his phone, tapping out a long text reply. 

Pete licks his lips, trying to wet the parched skin to no avail. If he’d fallen asleep on the plane, he was sure one of the flight attendants would’ve thought him dead, and worse, turning the plane around back to Chicago because there was a corpse in row 32. Now with his limbs heavy in the safety of their home, he could finally let his eyes rest. 

“You really look like shit.” Spencer mutters. Pete wants to flip him off or smack his arm or kick him, but all of those options require more energy than he’s got and he’s been running on fumes since he cleared through TSA at O’Hare. He grumbles in response, taking another deep lungful of Spencer’s shirt and wanting to bury himself in the scent blanketed in cigarettes, sweat, and stale dryer sheets. 

Spencer glances at him now and gives him a once-over. He’ll only do this because it’s pity that he’s feeling. Yes, he’s sure it’s pity and hopes Pete won’t make a habit out of neglecting his needs. He rolls up his sleeve before offering his wrist, nudging it in Pete’s line of sight. 

It’s unspoken, the recognition in Pete’s eyes and the gratitude he wants to show, but Spencer keeps his eyes glued to his phone before he answers a call, adjusting the phone against his cheek. He doesn’t flinch at Pete’s cool fingers holding his arm steady, doesn’t shiver as Pete traces the vein and pulse with his tongue before biting down. It’s a first, and the taste is something he’ll never forget. Spencer’s blood is sharp on his tongue as it drowns his senses, dousing the fire in his throat. The beast in him delights at the fact that if Pete wasn't as stubborn as he was and knowing what he knows now, it was a certainty that he'd take Spencer on any other night. But the fantasy fades as quickly as it came. He drinks slowly to savor as Spencer carries on with his conversation, nodding to the voice on the other line, but Pete is too consumed with the calming euphoria that smothers his nerves. 

Pete pulls away when Spencer bumps his foot against his ankle a little too hard, but he gives Spencer the courtesy of cleaning the punctures until they heal to a prominent bruise. He chases the taste, and only then does it register that Spencer just let him drink from him, offered without a second thought. He’s never touched Brendon, never crossed that line with him. 

Pete balks for a moment as Spencer ends the call and rolls his sleeve back down, yawning. “So, how’s Joe doing?” is where he steers this conversation, and Pete finally licks his lips, swallowing that lump in his throat. So that’s how this is gonna be? 

Spencer listens to his short summary of the business trip with half-lidded eyes and a barely contained yawn, nodding and trying to give Pete the illusion that he’s remotely interested in this at 2 am. 

Pete will never stop being in awe of him. 

-

Brendon’s fingers trace mindless patterns against the passenger window, humming to the tune of an old Dua Lipa single on the radio. Pete never missed an opportunity to pick him up from the few night lectures Brendon was forced to attend for the final credits he needed to graduate. Much to Brendon’s protest that he wasn’t just the little brother, Pete got him to relent with a simple plea. He caved like a house of cards and never fought Pete again. His chin rests on his satchel as Pete continues down Wilshire once the light changes, streets sparse of the usual bustle of cars on a late Thursday night. 

The years had been quiet. Brendon had taken to the promise of university seriously and devoted himself to studying. Though he rarely spoke during the classes he had to physically attend, the papers and multitudes of theses he submitted were incendiary enough to be left alone during the forum periods. Sleep begins to pull at him, tempting him to just rest his eyes now that the cheap Wendy’s Frosty and fries Pete brought him as a late dinner settles heavy in his stomach. 

“Was that guy back?” Pete asks off-hand, turning the radio down. Brendon only hums, rubbing at his eye. “The obnoxious one...the one with that tactical backpack.” 

Brendon smirks, scratching at the rough of his beard. Spencer was gonna lose this contest. “Yeah. Tried to over-simplify the nature of evil. I’m curious what his final paper will be like.” 

Pete snorts, shaking his head. “Always has something to say. Did you speak up this time?” 

“What would I even say if I did?” And this only earns Brendon an incredulous look because how dare he? 

Pete is three steps short of a glare. He wasn’t stuck in a tragedy’s nightmare stage. He made it out and bore witness to multitudes of horrors. He’ll fucking barge into that lecture hall himself and show that little shit what real evil is, he swears to... 

Brendon sighs. 

“I didn’t have the energy. And that’s between us. Let them live in blissful ignorance, because I sure wish I could’ve.” Brendon’s voice is rough with sleep, and it isn’t just the semester’s pressures running him ragged. He studies Pete’s blank expression. “I have nothing to prove to them. If they think I’m just the quiet dude taking notes in the front, I’m cool with it. That’s all I want to be, and in a couple months, I’ll never have to see them again.” 

“You’ve got some dumb people in your class, man.” Pete shakes his head, and he’s hated witnessing the fight slowly drain from him the past year, but he’s so near the end. Pete and Spencer are hellbent on getting Brendon shitfaced drunk to celebrate the end of this final semester. 

Brendon replies with a raspy hum, now tipping his head against the window. “I’ll take them over the old insanity. Feeling normal is underrated.” 

“Have you thought about what you’ll present for the seminar? Can it be show and tell? I bet you college kids secretly love that. I could help you get an ‘A’.” Pete offers, and the least he can do is get Brendon to smile. He’ll count the eye roll as a win. 

“If you care so much, why don’t you just enroll?” 

Pete only shrugs, letting out a sigh when he doesn’t make the next light. “I didn’t last more than a year at DePaul before shit went down. Not for me. I’m just excited for you is all. Am I not allowed to be proud of you?” 

Brendon smirks, finally letting his eyes slip shut. “Thanks, dad.” 

Brendon becomes a shell the following weeks leading up to June. There are rare moments when he ventures out of the master bedroom for the rabbit food he fixes himself, and Spencer has to physically restrain Pete from launching into a lecture that a couple of handfuls of pistachios alone are not sustainable. The stench of stress makes him physically sick. Shortly before Memorial Day, Spencer drags Brendon away for a mortal weekend to celebrate the closing of the semester in Vegas. Pete is left to putter around the house until he invites Linda with a shameless bribe of a pie of her choice from The Apple Pan. 

Pete resigns to the role of her skincare guinea pig if it means he’ll have a distraction from his protective instincts at the absence of his brothers. He breaks from their next Netflix binge, chemical peel still fresh on his cheeks, to refill her water bottle when his eye catches the sheen of a plastic report cover on the counter, half-hidden under Brendon’s laptop. 

The title page is simple, bearing Brendon’s name beneath _Apathy and Suffering: Evil_ _in_ _Its Contagious Forms_. Pete stares for a long moment enraptured by the realization of Brendon’s final thesis. His fingers itch, and he steals another glance back at her curled on the couch as she scrolls through the Netflix catalogue. Pete swears his hand just slips as he pulls the booklet from under the laptop and holds it close to his chest. When he comes back to perch beside Linda, she cranes her neck curiously to get a glimpse of the cover. 

“Don’t tell Brendon.” is all he says, and turns to the first page. 

When Spencer and Brendon return late into the afternoon that Sunday, Pete is grateful that Linda doesn’t mention a thing. She returns their hugs and tired kisses before taking off, though she throws a knowing glance in Pete’s direction on the way out the door. 

He insists that Brendon and Spencer go to the morning graduation ceremony, that he’d literally kill them if he didn’t get a picture of Brendon in the blue cap and gown with his degree. As much as Brendon groaned and moaned, he relented, and they returned that afternoon reeking of sweat from the summer heat and the stale lei Spencer picked up for him at the last minute. 

After the small graduation dinner, Brendon corners Pete at the sink, hands buried in soapy water and nowhere to run. He nurses a bottle of Modelo, leaning against the counter and eyes fixed on Pete’s. “So, what did you think of my dissertation?” he asks, casual as ever. Pete pauses, hands going still in the water for a moment as he tries to play dumb. He shrugs. 

“I assumed you finished it and emailed it to that board or whoever stamps your diploma.” But this only earns him a scoff as Brendon takes a long swig from his bottle, swishing the beer through his teeth before he finally swallows. If Pete could blush… 

“You didn’t answer my question. I asked what you thought. You know, after you read it.” 

He leans over the counter now, resting his elbows against the marble and tilts his head the way he used to when he would play with his next meal. Pete had been his prey all night. He takes a slight step to put some distance between him and Brendon’s hand knowing full well he’ll turn to putty at the physical contact. Once he clears his throat, swallowing the rock that was settling there, he resumes scrubbing. “I didn’t. Didn’t read it.” 

It’s then that Brendon reaches for him, warm fingers resting at the crook of his elbow, heartbeat a steady rhythm in Pete’s ears. “I don’t understand why you feel like you have to lie. I printed it for you.” It’s then that he smiles, exhausted but amused. “You dog-eared one of the pages. You didn’t think I’d notice?” 

Pete is afraid to look at him, but this doesn’t feel like anger. His brother feels content and as tired as he looks, gazing at Pete with knowing browns through the shadows around his eyes. Brendon’s fingers give a gentle squeeze around his arm. “It…um…” Pete tries to find the words, won’t admit the sting of phantom tears that burned at his eyes before he made it halfway through the thesis. “Was it meant to be read as autobiographical?” 

“Yes.” Brendon says, as if it was common knowledge. “I knew you would see that. As much as I wanted to interview you and Spence, I respect you wanting to keep your anonymity. I’m glad you read it.” 

There’s a beat before Pete’s shoulders drop, feeling the spoon he was scrubbing bend under his grip. “I’m sorry, Brendon.” He grits his teeth before forcing the words out. He needs to get them out. “I’m sorry for…for not protecting you as I should have. You deserved to live your life and… Sometimes I think I should’ve just sent you away but then I’m terrified of the alternative.” 

Brendon gives his arm another squeeze, throwing him a sly smirk. “Collateral Damage is my middle name.” 

And Pete so badly wants to laugh, but his brain floods with memories: images of Brendon bleeding out in the gutter, writhing in agony as the infection strangled and stopped his heart. The spoon snaps and drops with a muted thud in the water. “I like your name as it is.” Pete’s lip trembles, watches the grin fade from Brendon’s face. “I’m not saying William was ever stupid, but I could’ve been more subtle, had a little more self-control. I could’ve made it less obvious of how much I cared about you, and it felt guilty reading your paper, like William was watching me, like he did back then. I made it so easy for him and he knew how badly you'd break me. Reading that felt like he was doing it all over again even through your filter of scholarly bullshit. But that can be put down and locked away. What I let happen to you couldn’t be ignored and I’m…I’m just sorry I ever got you into all of it.” Pulling his arm free, he tugs Brendon closer and wraps his arms around his shoulders. Brendon flinches at the speed but sinks into his hold, trying to keep a good grip on his empty bottle. “I’m so sorry, but I’m so fucking proud of you.” he mumbles against Brendon’s shirt that’s slowly soaking under his soapy hands. 

It earns him one of Brendon’s bright laughs that make his heart sing and the embrace is returned. He drinks up Brendon’s warmth until it’s lost as Brendon pulls back, rolling his shoulders with a pop. His smile lingers. “I have regrets.” he states, like he’s made his peace with it and Pete can’t seem to get to that level. “Many. But you’re not one of them and I’m not sorry. I pictured you there today, somewhere up in the bleachers at the stadium. It felt wrong without you.” 

Late in the evening as they’re seated around the fire pit, Spencer and Linda argue over the best burger in town. Pete grins and watches fondly through the flames when they’re almost nose to nose in trying to make their case but as he leans back to stretch out, his eyes catch Brendon’s, and he doesn’t know how long he’s been staring. Brendon’s eyes are bloodshot, eyelids drooping slightly as he takes another drag of the joint between his fingers, but his smile is easy and knowing before he nods toward the two and rolls his eyes. 

Okay, Pete thinks, so maybe he’s not as crazy as he thought he was, and he wasn’t the only one trying to manage this stupid, manic obsession. 

-

Brendon startles when the deadbolt clicks and and Pete steps through the door, dropping his bag and looking fresh from a kill. He hastily cleans his glasses with the hem of his shirt. In the glow of the living room TV, the stains on Pete's chin are still wet, making him almost nostalgic, and if he thinks hard enough, he can faintly remember the taste of it and the small thrill of a pulse fading under his hands. He pauses the episode of X-Files that had been failing to keep his mind off of his earlier transgression as he spent the week alone, and stands to catch Pete before he can escape to his room. It's late, too late for how little he's been sleeping, but he can't let this sit.

He rubs at his eye and stumbles up the step to the hall knowing full well Pete can see him in the dark, hear the pads of his feet scuff against the wood. Pete's steps are brisk and is close to disappearing around the corner until Brendon calls to him and his voice is rougher than he realized. The memory of Pete's snarl had haunted him for days. It had been a first for him and now realized that there was a limit to Pete's patience. He'd breached it and was too ignorant to realize what did it until too many calls went to voicemail, until too many texts had gone unanswered. Spencer had been too fixated on the fact that his paramour had eloped with his brother without warning, but Brendon read the writing on the wall and eventually told him to drop the jealous act and shut the fuck up when it actually mattered. 

Pete paused at his voice and the seconds felt like hours until he actually looked him. Brendon's throat goes dry at the sudden undivided attention, but the weight on him felt so heavy. His heart screamed to make peace with the one person he couldn't bear to hurt. Pete's eyes were still black from the hunt, staring him down, reading his pulse, but Brendon knew he was listening.

"I'm glad you got home okay. I was...wondering how your meetings went." And Brendon wants to kick himself for such a pathetic attempt. Pete wasn't stupid and Brendon knew better than to treat him so. 

Pete blinks, and he then looks as old as he is, exhausted despite the meal. "Let's stop pretending there was a meeting. I needed space." 

Hearing it out loud cuts deeper than Brendon anticipated despite preparing himself all week with the realization. He thinks of Pete's teeth again, daring him to make another move. "Space from us? And you took Linda to get some space." Pete's silence is answer enough. "Spence was worried."

"Poor Spencer." Pete growls. Brendon's pulse picks up and his limbs scream for escape, but his brother's shoulders drop and the mask crumbles. "She's a great listener and has better intuition than you do."

Brendon picks at his nails anxiously, feeling smaller in a way that's all too familiar. Feeling less than. If he only received a taste of Pete's anger days ago, it'll certainly eat him alive now. "That's all it was? You two just talked?" He chews his lip. "But you couldn't talk to us?"

He can hear the low thrum of the growl building in Pete's chest, loud enough to his human ears to understand that he was already treading dangerous waters. Pete was still mad, that much he understood. Less brittle and outright hostile after feeding, but still giving Brendon that cold, narrowed stare and seething through his teeth. He was holding back. "What you're both doing to her is cruel. She deserved to know."

The guilt comes up as bile and Brendon forces it down. He'd suspected, but denial was stronger. And what a surprise which one won in the end. "We were going to tell her. We'd talked about it."

" _We_?" He flinched at the venom in Pete's voice, the hurt washing over him. "You and Spencer, discussing it in committee, holding a vote. _When_ were you planning on telling her? After I've killed you? And you're so sure I'd do it, that I _could_ do it? Would you tell her when you're in a body bag?"

"Pete, don't," Brendon pleads. He hates that look on his face: the one where Pete glares so hard he's close to tears, but it's more of the fact that he's done this to him. It's come to this. "We know you're capable." Pete's lip twitches and he's ready to spit more venom but Brendon is so tired and the distance is even more draining. "It isn't about age or stamina, Pete, trust me. It's intent."

"I don't intend to kill you, but lately, my intentions have been irrelevant." Brendon can hear the thirst in his voice. He understands. He really does. 

"If that's the way I go, then I'm glad it was you. Spence would be glad it was you instead of choking on a handful of Skittles or something." But Pete doesn't laugh, keeps staring at him with those black eyes. Yeah, that was in poor taste. "We're running out of time. You're not taking anything from us, but...I get it now. It's too much to ask of you. I need you to understand-"

"Just shut up." Pete says, eyes clenched shut to block him out the only other way he can. "Shut up. I'm...I'm so fucking angry with you and it's exhausting! How you're always looking at me and Spencer's so blasé when he fucking knows better! Is it not enough to be alive?! Is this freedom not enough for you? Linda came because she understands what it's like to be without you, to have you snatched away. I'm so fucking angry how I let you get so deep under my skin. Fuck... "

"Pete..."

His lip trembles again to bare his teeth in warning, but it dies. "I'll do what you ask. I'll do it. But you're going to promise me you two will make the most of the time you have left. Be with her, get into trouble, tie up loose ends. You have all the time in the world." Brendon relaxes, fingers tingling as he unclenches his hands and letting the tension drain. He makes a move to touch, even a simple nudge of acknowledgment, but Pete is quick to put space between them. "Don't you dare."

Brendon gives a resigned nod at the rejection, folding his arms and steps aside. 

There are few things Brendon has ever kept from Pete. Waking up in the harsh light of humanity was a shock to the system and one that Brendon had never fully embraced. It should've disturbed him more than it had when he still had tangible memories of his life before Pete. He should've fallen into step easily, but breathing was a chore. The dulled senses and vulnerability drove him to exhaustion. His soul ached. He gave it the old college try, and for all of his efforts, he still felt alienated by humanity at large. Now there was a small thrill at the new certainty he'd be Pete's equal again. After the past few years pretending, trying to make the best of it, there was a real promise he'd return to immortality on his own terms.

Pete's duffel lies abandoned by the front door. Perhaps he could suck up a bit and do Pete's load of laundry.

"I missed you." is all he can offer as a real thank you.

Pete begins to wipe the carnage clean with his sleeve but doesn't give Brendon the courtesy of eye contact. "Missed you too. Now stay the fuck away from me."

-

"I hate you for guilt-tripping me. Breakfast is overrated." Spencer growls, sliding into the opposite end of the booth and squinting at the brown logo of the Canter's menu through his sunglasses.

"Take a number." Brendon mutters into his coffee, sipping slowly to savor the taste, because he'll be damned if he ever disappoints his brother again. 

Spencer's wayfarers slide down the bridge of his nose and Brendon catches the dark bags under his eyes. "Was Pete asleep when you left?" he asks, keeping his voice even, but Brendon can hear the restraint. They'd trusted Linda to keep secrets but were met with the cold sting of reality that they weren't exempt from that pact. Spencer had been more of the bad cop in their line of questioning as to what exactly happened in Chicago. Every question was met simply with "I was needed." Brendon was then grateful for their humanity and that Spencer couldn't do much more than slam a few doors. "Just for keeping me up this early in the morning, I'm getting two lox bagels to go on your dime. I can't eat when you smell so bad Pete could track you to Mexico."

Brendon brushes off the insult, reaching for the sugar canister to experiment. "Morning runs aren't so bad," he shrugs, pouring a small mountain of sugar onto a spoon before stirring it into his cup. "Sunrises are nice and the pain starts to feel good after a while."

"Didn't know pain was your thing." Spencer bites before placing his order with the waitress and offering his mug to her carafe of coffee. Brendon eyes him, doesn't bother to retort over it. He isn't ignorant to what they were and won't hide his guilt that he's grown distant with the passage of time and the hazy memories of a bond that once meant the difference between life and death.

Once he settles, Brendon sits back, absently stirring his mug. There's no point in building suspense. "He's going to do it, Spence. He didn't say when, but he agreed." When Spencer empties a pack of creamer and mutters a _what?_ , Brendon's silence finally has him glancing up. The sunglasses come off. "He'll turn us. He's not exactly in the mood to speak to us anytime soon, but he was clear on his condition."

"All of this could've been a text. I could be in bed right now." 

Brendon pulls off his glasses and rubs his eyes. "Jesus, you can be a real asshole sometimes..." 

Spencer steers his exhausted glare to him, hoping it would melt Brendon's face clean off. "I'm entitled, aren't I? You mope for a week while he fucks off to Chicago with Linda without an explanation and I'm left to carry on like it's fine. You're not my maker. You can't tell me what I can and cannot be." Despite the palpable anger, Brendon watches him soberly as he reaches for a slice of his toast that's gone untouched since it was brought out.

"You're right, I'm not your maker anymore. But Pete will be." He spreads a chunk of butter on the slice before deciding to dunk the corner in jam and takes a bite, humming with approval. His mouth is still full as he speaks, much to Spencer's disgust. "I spent four years studying and too uncomfortable with my own humanity to appreciate what we have. I'd forgotten. I don't know about you. I'm not in your head anymore and I can't speak for you." Spencer tries to hide his scowl when the waitress returns with the boxes of lox. Brendon only requests the check. "You still want to turn, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"So maybe you could be less of a dick and appreciate that Pete is gonna do this for us. We could've gone about asking him a lot better but it's taking a lot out of him to say yes." Spencer's jaw sets before taking a long sip from his mug. "And I think we should show a little more gratitude. You can start by dropping the petty jealous act."

Spencer growls now, briefly recoiling to catch himself and keep his voice down in their booth. Brendon doesn't miss the way his nails scrape against the table. "We called. We text. Even Joe blew us off. They're gone for a week and what the fuck am I supposed to think? It wouldn't matter so much if she was with you, but..." he spits, and Brendon only shrugs, unimpressed.

"So it shouldn't matter if it was Pete and you have no business thinking so low of Linda." Brendon answers. His dismissive tone grates against Spencer's nerves. "Pete's already loved and lost. I'm positive he's not looking to fuck up his family"

Brendon takes another bite of toast, shrugs again, and Spencer wants to crawl across the table and rip his face off. "Then they should know how I feel about her, what it would've looked like to run off alone together."

"Maybe they don't." It hits Spencer harder than he thought it would, hearing it out loud, and he sinks against the seat. Freezing guilt floods his veins now and the red filter clouding his judgment dissolves. He could pass out right now from the exhaustion. "Maybe you should tell her, or even better, _show her_. If she wasn't so stupid about you, I would've done it for you."

Spencer is less graceful than he intended as he downs the rest of his coffee in hopes that he can drown the hard truth with caffeine. There have been times that he's fallen back into a submissive dynamic with Brendon like muscle memory, only to double down on his independence once he sobered up. He realized that even in humanity, Brendon's patience felt infinite, but he must've been salting the earth behind him as he forged his own path if Brendon was calling him out so harshly.

Brendon's voice is softer now, sobering. "We've been selfish, Spence. Honestly, where would we be without him? What would we have done had he not been there for us?" He swallows thickly at the thought, glad he isn't alone as Spencer casts his eyes down with a grimace. "I'm not letting him turn me with bad blood between us and you should give him that same courtesy. They're both worth more than jealousy. Drop the petty shit and grow up."

He takes the check when the waitress returns and digs for the plastic card in his wallet. 

Spencer woke to humanity with all of his senses dulled like a bag pulled over his head. Unfortunately, he couldn't lock away his emotions anymore, and humility was the worst of them. It wasn't that he was afraid Pete would hurt him. He'd never really been afraid of him and could look his brother in the eye even through the nastiest of arguments that almost came to blows. But Pete wouldn't lay a hand on him. There were times he thought it was absurd for Brendon to put himself between them to diffuse the situation, even when he knew Spencer was right. He thought it was always Brendon taking Pete's side, alienating him with a relationship that was far older despite the fact that he and Brendon had been intimate and hosted a malevolent presence together for years. He'd wanted to play that card so badly but backed out at the thought of seeing the hurt in their eyes. 

For so long, Brendon and Pete had been his mentors, both the kind teacher and brutal realist. It was still there beneath it all. He could feel the authority in Brendon's voice like a half-remembered dream but this wasn't commanding him to do something against his will. It was asking. Leave your pride behind. Think of someone other than yourself. Do as Pete had done.

Spencer reaches to pull a few bills from his pocket for a tip and lays them out under the check. "I'll call her tonight after I get some sleep. I'll...I'll talk to Pete as soon as I get home." Brendon only nods in affirmation and finishes his coffee. "Can I ask you something though? And be honest." He perks now and slides his glasses back onto his nose. "You haven't felt anything since we woke up, right? You haven't felt or heard _him_?"

Brendon shakes his head, brows pinching as if Spencer's question was that ridiculous. "It's just been me alone in my own head, Spence. Don't worry about it." But Spencer still eyes him suspiciously.

"Make sure you put effort into his apology." Brendon says. "You don't want that shit following you when you turn. Pete should be enough of a lesson for you."


	6. Mutual Agreement

Spencer gives me a look that’s something I can understand. There’s a strange comfort in this obscure kind of cryptophasia that’s developed between us, even before this idea was put out there. Formally. He’s grown on me, even if it was by force. He’s a dick, but a dick that would go to bat for me at the end of the day, no questions asked. And I don’t want to kill him. 

But he asked me to. 

He asked me to and I wanted slap sense into him and tell him how fucking stupid it was that he was wasting something I once took for granted. He should fucking know. But then they both cornered me and the argument suddenly died in my throat. And I wasn’t entirely sure I could come through with this request. I couldn't see myself siring anyone. I’d always pictured something Victorian, something romantic and old-fashioned, more regal in candlelight. It felt so rigid and formal. And even when I briefly entertained that idea with Meagan and completely blinded by love, trauma reared its ugly head to remind me that it was something violent and agonizing. I’d never wanted that for her, and it’s something I’d never want for Spencer. 

He said I was too stubborn to let anything control me, that I loved him too much to drag it out, and I never laughed at the joke. I could only think about how little he knew about me. 

But he asked me to. 

There’s trust in his eyes, but his mouth tells me I better not fuck this up. I hadn’t fed. The thirst is there and it feels like we’ve been here before where he’s offering again, but there’s a finality now. My instincts are screaming that he’s family and it’ll kill me too. It’s repulsion more than an innate urgency to satiate this thirst. I go for his wrist after refusing the throat. It’s something familiar and neutral, and maybe I just want to drive the point of how uncomfortable the idea of any superiority over my brothers makes me feel. He seemed okay with it, never pushed back. I hesitate again. 

“We’re gonna to laugh about this later.” he offers, but I don’t think he understands how comforting that is. It’s not a _goodbye_. It sounds like enough of an invite to take the bite. 

I’m flooded with the taste again. The beast in me relishes in it, urges me to take and only take, but permission makes all the difference. It’s a different kind of high. I know how strong his heart is, feel its pulse in my veins and its beat heavy in my ears starting to slow and drag its rhythm. My instincts are loud enough to make me pull away when his breaths become labored and strained but I immediately regret looking at him that it almost makes me gag. I hate that I’ve done this to him. Through parched lips and sunken eyes, he still smiles with another invite. I stare at him and try to remember how Brendon described it. He cradles Spencer’s head in his lap and it feels so strange to do this, like I’m watching myself feed him and see the light go out in his eyes. 

And fuck, I’ve killed him. I really did it. He’s fucking dead. I’ve fucked up and he’s gone. 

“ _Pete_. Pete, look at me. Hey.” Brendon’s voice feels muted and distant until he reaches out to me and snaps me out of the fog. The smile on his face feels so wrong because can’t he see that Spence is fucking dead? His grin softens, carding his fingers through Spencer’s hair even when his vacant eyes stare up at nothing and he’s too calm. “Give him a minute. You’re good. You did everything right.” 

“He’s…he’s…what if I…?” 

“You did everything right.” Brendon affirms. “Trust me.” 

He’s right, when Spencer jerks and nearly rolls out of Brendon’s hold, blinking too hard before he looks up at me with recognition and smiles with relief. 

He looks...more alive than before. I really try to smile and match the one he’s giving me, until he sits up and touches my face. No, he’s slapping my face to ground me. It’s not the tangible sting that I notice with his strength but the cold surface of his skin. He’s alive. I did this. 

“You’ve got a great bedside manner.” he jokes in a voice I recognize. Okay, Spence. It’s really you. Make as many jokes as you want at my expense. I don’t care anymore. 

I try to smile as he pulls me closer, feels the way I remember. So why does this still feel wrong? Brendon assured me I did everything right, and I don’t even feel weak. There was no pain, nothing like I remembered where I wished I was really dead. Spencer and I can hunt and fall into the same steps we’re used to. So why does this feel so fucking wrong? 

Right. Because now I have to kill Brendon. And I really want to puke. 

He’s expecting it, laughs at Spencer when he says we need to speed this up before he goes rabid, but Brendon keeps his gaze on me as we move to the grass like he can see the scared, sobbing kid buried deep down. My feet carry me there of their own volition and follow him before he spreads out leisurely like he’d done all week in the sun, like this will be a breeze. Spencer flanks him but I’m still a length away, hanging in the wings. Please don’t make me do this. 

I’ll really fuck it up. I’ll make a mistake and then that’s it. He’s gone. 

And then where would I be? Would I still be me without him? How did I make it through the last time? Barely. Would Spencer hold me back? Would he keep me from going feral? Could he even? 

“Pete.” 

They’re watching me, but I only meet Spencer’s eyes from his voice, try to have him understand and read me as easily as he does. Losing Brendon would destroy us. His lips purse like he gets it, but there’s something different, and I get it as I watch the slow bob of his Adam’s Apple as he swallows. 

I could unleash something. 

Brendon’s mortality and humanity could be restraining It. But it’s been years since. I thought that once. I grew content and lied to myself that he was fine. Beckett was dead. I never saw him die, but... _I never saw him die with my own eyes_. I let it take him again. Brendon had always suffered because of me. I led him to ruin and he’s following once again, actually asking me to murder him in the backyard. It’s so fucking ridiculous I want to laugh. 

He calls to me with a hand outstretched and I can buy time by avoiding his eyes and looking at his sleeve of tattoos instead. How beautiful they are. I could convince him to get more and push this back far enough that he forgets he even asked. He forgets a lot of things. It could work. He calls my name again and I’m compelled to listen, the resistance feeding into a migraine until I really look at him. There’s life and warmth in his eyes that I’ll smother and kill. 

I can’t do this. 

He leans closer when I sit and notice the sod is still warm from the afternoon. He deserves so much better than what he had. Our yard is beautiful. His labors in the garden had paid off and it’s something welcoming and almost unattainably beautiful that he’s made for us. He smiles at me and he’s close enough that I can still smell the coffee on his breath and the sun in his skin. His heart is the only thing I hear now. Its rhythm is the only thing I ever want to hear for the rest of my life. I can’t do this. His fingers wrap around my wrist, radiating heat. “You’re not taking anything from me.” he says. “Don’t leave me behind, okay? I trust you.” 

I feel selfish as I nod but I can’t look at him anymore at what I’m about to do. He knows where to dig the knife a bit deeper. _Don’t leave me behind_. Fuck you, Brendon. I won’t. 

I go to lift his wrist, but he resists and shakes his head to gesture at his throat. Please, god, no. Bren, no. 

“I want them all to see it.” 

Fuck you, Brendon. 

He smiles anyway as Spencer braces his hands at Brendon’s wrists in restraint. It’s a blissful thing that he doesn’t resist. My eyes trail to the spot at the crook of his neck where the angry, raised impressions of William’s teeth had been, where the skin was pinched and warped when his fangs tore away, just the way he once taught Brendon to kill. Brendon’s foot nudges my knee expectantly, and I take it as a reminder that I’m not him. Like he said, I'm not taking anything. Brendon is choosing this. 

My teeth meet that same spot, holding him with the care he deserves. When I do bite down, he sinks against me and still doesn’t resist when I feel the weight of his head rest on my shoulder. Brendon was always a line I refused to cross. I never let myself entertain the thought of ever hurting him, and even when my emotions ran wild as a newborn, when I knew it would be total suicide to hunt him down, he was off-limits and I set myself loose on someone else, anyone else. I refused to add my impressions to the dozens of fresh marks he was covered with when he first came to us in Chicago, and to this day I have no idea what the fuck he was even doing in McKinley Park that night. I want to run from that memory, but it holds me down, possesses me as he floods my senses, and Jesus fuck, I never imagined what joy tasted like until now. I thought for a moment it was the sweet acid of citrus, but then his energy sparks through my veins, and its happiness. I need more of it. Chase this feeling. Drown in it. More. More. 

He sinks into my arms when I tug him closer. Is this what I’ve been missing? It feels electric, but reality hits that Brendon is dying when his raspy laugh rumbles against my shoulder, that he’s dying because of me. Like his hand is in my chest, clenched around my heart and poised to rip it out. We’re gentle to recline him back to the grass and his blood is still warm and fresh on my lip. The animal in me wants more, but I gag it to make damn sure he isn’t left behind because I need him. He needs us. I stare at him when my teeth slice through the ink on my wrist, wonder what he sees when his gaze wanders lazily upward. His lips are still spread in this contented grin that feels out of place with the labored beating of his heart, thuds dragging slower and slower. When I think he finally passes out, he still drinks. He’s still here with us. 

Until he stops. Until he’s silent and still. He fades away without a fight. 

Come back to us. I did as you asked. Please come back to us. I want to chase the joy he’s given me again and again but the minutes tick by and it’s too long. You took too much, Pete. You greedy, stupid fuck. And he let you. The traces of warmth fade from the hand I clutch in my palms and I can’t hear Spencer, can’t process what he’s saying when I’m focused on Brendon’s blanched lips, still counting the seconds as I feel desperation and agony smothering what little happiness I let myself feel for fucking once. His shirt feels different clenched in my hand to try and chase the pulse I wish was there. Too brittle. Ripping under my grip. 

Don’t leave me behind. Don’t leave _us_ behind, asshole. 

Brendon lurches, arching up with a panicked gasp under Spencer’s arms. His limbs tremble and he fights for breath with frantic spasms of shock. I catch his eyes then: the deep browns now reflective in the pool light stare back at me. Brendon’s grin spreads like wildfire on his face as he focuses and his lethal teeth don’t look out of place. The half-moon scar of my teeth is clean and stark on his throat. I pull him close to crush him in a hug a bit more desperate than intended, and at this point, I don’t care if he’s making fun of me. I can’t stop the shaking, can’t stop the tremors of adrenaline now that my brain confirms there’s no reason to grieve. 

I let go and put distance between us to make good on my promise that I’d never lay a hand on him. But this was different. This was totally different. I don’t want to listen to whatever they have to say because I’ve given them enough for one night. We’ll feed and fall into our old habits and I’ll sleep better in the coming days, but I need to get away as that adrenaline burns to hot, scalding rage of what I’ve done. 

The house is safer. There are places to hide. Right now, I need to fucking break something. 


	7. Brendon From Chicago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank Dylan O'Brien for this.

Chicago, 2012

For a while, Brendon thought Spencer’s quest to get him to smile was adorable and pitied him when it felt like he was trying too hard. He didn’t have the heart to tell him how bad the city made his skin crawl when he’d put in so much effort to get them there comfortably. And after the massacre they’d left in the glass penthouse, he was thankful Spencer was smart enough to realize it wasn’t really Brendon that smiled at him through all that carnage. But it brought them close. They’d lay low, keep each other in check. Though Brendon only expressed a brief bout of shame, he insisted they learn and move on. Spencer couldn’t shake the terror at the fact that he was somewhat lucid through the episode. He enjoyed it.

As they say, the night was still young. Brendon had made sure to shower  Spencer  with the little things: anecdotes about his favorite places along Lake Shore Drive, reassuring touches at the soft spot on Spencer’s wrist. Spencer’s pressed into his space as they walk, half-listening and keeping an eye out. The crunch of the autumn leaves under their feet are more of a distraction than something to marvel at this mid-October, Spencer thinks, and someone should really do something about them in an older neighborhood like this. 

Brendon stops short and Spencer hits his shoulder, gripping the wool sleeve of Brendon’s coat for purchase. He has a half a mind to tell him off and that a little warning would be nice, but Brendon  has his eyes glued to the 3-story brownstone across the street, towering over its cast iron gate. 

Brendon’s tongue darts to wet his lips but doesn't tear his gaze away from the building. “I didn’t realize where we were. I can’t believe it’s still here.”

“Where’s here?” Spencer asks, going through a list of likely places that would stop Brendon in his tracks.

Brendon takes a weary step back as if the building’s presence is that imposing, and scrubs a hand over his mouth in disbelief. It takes a moment for Spencer to realize his hand is actually shaking. He crowds into Brendon’s space to take his hand away and presses his palm between his own in hopes the contact will soothe him enough.

“This was home.” Brendon clears his throat and tries to ignore the way his voice broke. “Not really a home. William’s.” There’s a beat before Spencer glances back at it, and  _ oh shit.  _

Spencer waits for the other shoe to drop, for something in Brendon to break and end up picking up the pieces. At first glance, it’s only a brownstone mansion, as old as the neighborhood it sits in. Its windows are dark and dirty. The chain around the gate and the overgrown bushes are what sets off alarm bells for him . He tries to picture it in its prime, manicured and bustling at night. He tries to picture Brendon somewhere behind the gate watching him curiously but it dies when he catches the sour scent coming off of Brendon’s shoulders. The rot in the mansion runs deeper than that. 

Brendon points upward and part of Spencer is compelled to ask if he wants to stay when this is clearly making him some degree of uncomfortable but is overpowered by his rabid curiosity and the fact that Brendon is actually giving him a detail of his life before they were  _ Brendon and Spencer _ . His eyes follow as directed, somewhere on the third floor. “There,” Brendon says. “Facing west on the back side. That was mine...at least, I  _ think _ it was. I only remember pieces, like that elm tree always stood out  from the  window.”

There’s pain in his voice that Spencer’s way too familiar with by now and hopes to chase it off with  vapid  questions. “Did you have your own room, at least? No roommates leaving a mess behind?” Brendon’s head tilts at this, focusing on the scattered memories of when he was actually lucid.

“Not that I know of. I don’t think I was in there enough to care anyway.” He finally tears his  gaze away, watching Spencer with those  clouded eyes and  just making out the faint line of his iris through the fog . Kind, grounding. “It felt like it was more  a necessity to get out of the sun. The bed was soft though. That’s something, right?”

He seems to be looking for validation and Spencer wants to agree if it’d please him, but Brendon grips his sleeve then  and head snapping toward the  sound of the  crisp  clap of hands  echoing from the street. Brendon doesn’t outright bare his teeth, but his shoulders are squared to stand his ground , eyes alert .

“Brendon Urie...in the flesh!” Spencer sizes the guy up immediately and calculates how much effort it would take to rip his throat out. It’d probably be easier to get a good grip on the lengths of his black hair and toss him into oncoming traffic. The mess would be spectacular. 

“ Carden ,” Brendon acknowledges. “Didn’t expect to see you here.  _ I seriously didn’t expect to see you here _ .” Spencer presses closer as his instincts scream to protect his maker. They way this guy is smiling at them is enough to make his skin crawl.

“So , the rumors are true. The heir has returned to claim his territory.”

He sinks into Spencer’s side, and if it weren’t for the bone-breaking grip on his wrist, he wasn’t sure Brendon was anxious at all. “We were just leaving.” This Carden doesn’t catch the razor-thin lilt in Brendon’s voice, but it almost cuts Spencer in two. He restrains the rabid animal in him and places a guiding hand at Brendon’s shoulder to steer him away.

They don’t make it three steps before Carden’s taunts chase them. “Leaving? We’ve been waiting. For years we’ve waited for any sign you’d survived when William didn’t come back!” Brendon’s jaw sets, grips Spencer’s wrist a little harder. His pace falters a little and Spencer studies his hard gaze at the concrete sidewalk. His shoulders tense under Spencer’s hand. “The city has been waiting for you, Brendon!”

“That’s enough.” Spencer doesn’t mask the growl rattling through his throat. He takes insult to injury when they guy sports a grin and sizes him up. Who the hell is he demanding Brendon’s attention? Can’t take a hint at all, this guy. Spencer’s bared teeth don’t deter him at all.

“That’s cute, Brendon.” Carden drawls. “The crown prince already has a guard dog.”

Spencer hurries them along and pulls Brendon closer but something begins to tug. Brendon’s grip slips from his wrist at the resistance. “Th-That’s not who I am.” he  stutters. “That’s not who I--”

Carden’s steps are swift when he closes the distance and circles his fingers around Brendon’s arm. Spencer’s muscles sing for violence, poised to break Carden’s arm in all the important places when Brendon grunts at the pressure.

And a switch is flipped. Brendon’s gaze turns cold and narrowed. Horror spreads across Carden’s face and he moves to pull his hand back, but Brendon’s fingers are already hooked around his wrist in a vise. Spencer can feel the freezing fingers tugging at his consciousness but makes a strained effort to resist. Brendon’s posture turns predatory and he’s already gone. Carden grips at his arms, clawing to get free as Brendon drives him against a parked car. He screeches but is drowned out by the car alarm and Brendon towers over him, gripping Carden’s jaw with his free hand. Brendon’s nails slice into the skin of his cheek, grinning as his prey struggles under his hands. Spencer feels the bond between them sing and it begins to consume all of his conscious effort to resist that pull. Carden goes still in submission but Spencer can read the terror all over his face.

“Why would we want anything to do with this shithole after all of our efforts went to waste? Decades and blood were squandered on all of you. Stubborn, weak, pathetic, and it’s almost impressive you’ve survived on your own this long, Michael. But we’ve learned.” Brendon’s voice drips with venom, seething against Carden’s skin. Blood travels in dark rivulets over his nails. He presses closer, but his words are clear. “Let’s start a new rumor, shall we? We’ll leave Chicago to rot as you’ve let it for far larger prizes to pursue. There is no territory anymore. There is only us.”

Carden is frozen in horror, gaze fixed on the grey fog in Brendon’s eyes that are focused. Spencer isn’t sure he’s blinked at all. He should stop this. Brendon lost control the moment this guy made a sound and had the audacity to approach them. It tells Spencer he had what was coming to him and Brendon should carry out sentencing against that transgression but will grant mercy and a warning. This is mercy?  _ Jesus… _ He focuses on Brendon’s wool coat, remembers the way the store manager wrapped it for him just before closing, how Brendon bit back a grin and ran his fingers over the pewter buttons after he tried it on. It’s not Brendon in the coat now. 

His prey lets out a muffled whine when he carves a deep gash from ear to collar with his thumbnail. Brendon shushes him softly as if soothing a child, but Spencer can see the blood snaking its way across  Carden’s skin and Brendon’s hand that grips his throat to hold him down through the convulsions of pain. “This will likely scar.” Brendon observes. “We won’t think of you after tonight, but you’ll remember us for eternity.”

“I think he understands, B” Spencer says tentatively. The space between them feels electric, tempting. 

Brendon doesn’t even offer him a glance. “We’ll consider your opinion when we ask for it, Mr. Smith.”

Carden has his gaze trained on him now as he clenches his jaw with agony. Spencer reads it as a plea and it’s then that he realizes this is his first encounter with another of their kind. He’s struck by his naïve idea that their kind were few and far between and how isolated they’d been until now. Tonight’s lesson was that not only were there more, that Brendon was known. He was  _ someone _ before he found Spencer. He was and still is feared. Carden will leave with more knowledge than he woke with tonight. He’ll add to Brendon’s legend. Spencer will be a legend.

Were all encounters like this? Was it always territorial? Brendon would give him an honest answer. He’d guide Spencer toward the path of least resistance. This wasn’t it. 

Brendon lurches closer, brushing his nose along  Carden’s unscathed cheek, baring his teeth now. “Tell them what you’ve seen, and if you cross us again, we will bring you such horrors. The last of our patience was spent on you. Is that understood, Michael?”  Carden’s forced nod is all he could muster under restraint. Brendon releases him before  Carden falls to his knees and braces his hands against the open gash along his neck. Brendon takes a step back, seething with disgust. “Get up, you pathetic child.”

Spencer was certain fear had him paralyzed and cemented to the spot at Brendon’s feet. If he had Michael  Carden’s ignorance, Spencer is sure he would be too, but Brendon lets out a guttural snarl and  Carden is on his feet, sprinting south without a second glance. 

It was right about one thing despite Brendon’s peculiar context: Spencer’s patience was spent. “Enough.” he growls. Brendon turns, sizing him up with a sneer. Those cold fingers return, snaking up his spine to tease him. Spencer’s anger keeps him focused, banishing it for the moment. “Enough of this. Let him go.”

Brendon’s head tilts in a curious way, eyes boring into Spencer’s. “All we do is protect what is ours, Spencer. Keep pretending you’re exempt from that.”

“This isn’t protection,” Spencer seethes. He holds his ground as Brendon closes in. The icy fingers slide around his throat and the whispers begin. 

“Isn’t it?” Brendon counters. “Could you imagine the anger he felt, his terror at the sight of Michael  Carden ? Has he not told you about his fantasies of revenge? Has he told you why? Has he told you anything?”

“This isn’t about that--”

“But it is, Spencer. We’re here to protect what is ours. When you resist us, when you’re too weak to protect him yourself.” He steps closer, and Spencer picks up the scent of rot and carnage emanating from Brendon’s wool collar. It’s all wrong. “We make him who he was meant to be. We make him strong. We make him desirable. Isn’t that right, Spencer?” Spencer’s skin crawls because it knows just where to stick the knife. It’s entertained Spencer’s fantasies, pushed him to act on them, but the harsh reality is that it wasn’t Brendon that night in the townhouse. It wasn’t Brendon teasing him now.

It reaches out with Brendon’s hand and Spencer can smell the stale blood under his nails. It’s not what he wants. Spencer recoils and grips Brendon’s wrist, fighting against his maker’s strength as it grins at him with Brendon’s lips. ‘You’ve had your fun.” Spencer doesn’t suppress the growl rising in his throat. This isn’t jealously anymore, and if it wants to see protection, Spencer’s ready to teach it a few lessons. “And now you’re going to release him and go back to your dark little corner.”

“Why would we do that?”

Its grin doesn’t last long when Spencer’s grip tightens, when his voice doesn’t waiver and he reaches to cradle the nape of Brendon’s neck, anchoring him. “Because Brendon doesn’t need you anymore. He doesn’t respond to cruelty.” Spencer’s touch turns delicate and Brendon’s jaw sets. “Come back to me, Bren.”

It scowls at him, but Spencer persists, coaxing with a gentleness this presence couldn’t understand. It can give Brendon revenge, but Spencer can give him compassion. It writhes in his hold as Spencer continues.

The rage ringing in Brendon’s ears go quiet and the thirst subsides. He’s washed with calm and the sound of his name in Spencer’s smooth tenor bring everything back into focus. The blurred images are now sharpened where Brendon can read the stern line of Spencer’s eyebrows. A light returns in Brendon’s eyes, growing brighter at the rough pads of Spencer’s fingers against his skin. His head tilts as Spencer takes his hand between his palms, makes that leap to step closer until he sinks against Spencer’s shoulder. The contact is grounding, lifting him from the suffocating darkness and back to reality where Spencer waits for him. Brendon hums as he squeezes Spencer’s hand in return. 

“Spence?” And Brendon takes in the crimson stains on his fingers, caking his  nailbeds . Spencer pulls them away again when they begin to tremble. “Whose blood is this? What have I done?”

But Spencer doesn’t have the heart to tell him, not with the  terror written on his face when Brendon first recognized the mansion across the street, not with the way he squared his shoulders when  Carden called out his name.  _ Spare him _ , Spencer thinks,  _ for once _ . 

Brendon initially resists when Spencer pulls his hands back and cradles his cheeks, making him focus. His eyes are searching and frantic but Spencer is vigilant and pushes through the mental exhaustion to hold his gaze. He’s new at this. He still has much to learn about his nature, but he knows Brendon. Don’t let him slip away.

“It was nothing.” he states simply, but with the way Brendon’s lip quivers, it isn’t good enough. “Trust me. I’ve got you, B.”

Spencer’s gaze is heavy, imploring, and he reasons that Brendon will understand. He’s proven his worth to his maker. He’s there to catch him , brushing his thumb along the sharp ridge of Brendon’s cheek when Brendon averts his eyes and nods. “Nothing good has ever come from that place. There’s nothing but pain in those walls.” he mutters. A bitter seed is planted in Spencer and his first reaction is a surge of almost nauseous anger at how small Brendon has made himself. He can only imagine the horrors Brendon had witnessed and likely committed; wishes he could understand if only his maker would share that part of him and perhaps Spencer could help carry a bit of the load for him. 

“If I could buy it up, I’d raze it to the ground the next day.”

Brendon doesn’t smile the way Spencer had hoped at this small offering. “I know you would.” And it isn’t much, but Spencer will gladly take it. “We’re never coming here again. I’d like to leave, please.”

It’s impossible for Spencer to ignore the shame in his voice. When he rests his hand between Brendon’s shoulders to guide him toward the park, he isn’t rejected. He’s solid, resilient, reliable. He isn’t exactly sure if Brendon was specific about this particular neighborhood or the city at large in his order but was perceptive enough to realize that the city felt like a cancer, poisoning them a little more night after night. They needed to move.

They rinse Brendon’s hands in a park drinking fountain and no amount of scrubbing in the freezing water could rid him of the red tint staining his  cuticles . Brendon  holds his composure in the Uber back to the St. Jane and keeps his eyes fixed on the window. Spencer’s thoughts begin to wander. Brendon’s past was the unmentionable, always alluded to in vague anecdotes and names that came and went like a breeze. For a while, that’s all they were, and Spencer went on in blissful ignorance and content with a fantasy of who and what Brendon really was. In Spencer’s eyes, he was that beautiful mystery, something far older and frozen in youth. The fantasy had begun to sour. 

Brendon was never that dream. He wasn’t ancient. Brendon was trapped in youth, scarred and lost beneath it all and burdened with more knowledge than he ever wanted to carry.

Spencer wasn’t subtle as he studied Brendon as they rode the elevator to their floor and hoped at any moment Brendon would finally look at him instead of keeping his eyes glued to his shoes. At this point, he reasoned, Brendon should trust him completely. Brendon holds the door open once he slides the room key through the reader but still doesn’t meet his eyes and Spencer begins to grow impatient. 

“Who was that?” he asks, making Brendon pause with half of his shirt untucked. He blocks the corridor to the bathroom and any means of escape to avoid the question. 

There’s a lilt in his voice as Brendon dismisses it. “It’s in the past, Spence. Don’t worry about it.”

It’s one thing to brush it off and insulting to flat out lie to his face. “It isn’t when the past comes out of the woodwork to threaten you. I’m allowed to worry about it when I don’t know who or what I’m protecting you from.”

Brendon still doesn’t give him the courtesy of direct eye contact. “I don’t need your protection.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Spencer snarls. His rage begins to boil over and Brendon recoils from the outburst , finally looking at him. It’s fear, and Spencer’s gut twists with shame, but for once, he should be allowed to be angry. “A guy slithers out of the shadows from a place that terrifies you. He calls you a prince, mocks you, and you’re threatened. How am I supposed to react when I don’t know what he means to you or who you are?  I give a shit!  I get to fucking worry!”

The air becomes electric with Spencer’s anger, sparking between them. Brendon studies him carefully, looking him over with those iridescent eyes. But he shakes his head then, leaning over to tug off his shoes and socks. “There’s nothing Mike  Carden can do or say that hasn’t already been. He doesn’t know a thing about me so it’s best to disregard whatever bullshit came out of his mouth.”

“How could I do that when I don’t know anything about you ? What’s even true, Brendon ?”

This gives Brendon pause, setting his jaw as he unfastens the first few buttons. A longing begins to tug at his heart. He can feel Spencer’s eyes on him again, burning a hole in his back. “What’s your opinion of me then? Not as your maker but just...me.”

Spencer may have been too hasty in demanding Brendon’s attention now that he’s under the unfiltered weight of it. This can’t be a trick question. Brendon doesn’t blink as he waits for a serious answer. “I think you exhaust yourself in trying to get people to like you when not everyone deserves your attention.” He chews his lip now, hesitating for a moment on whether or not he should spare Brendon from his real grievance. “And I think that for all that you’re holding in, it’s crazy that you keep those parts of yourself from the one person that would never betray you, even while it’s slowly killing you.”

Brendon’s eyes are bloodshot, looking struck. “If the bond with your maker is the only thing keeping you from betraying me, that’s a pretty weak standard when I killed mine--”

“Oh, fuck you, Bren.” Spencer spits. “You’re all I have in the world now. I’d kill for you if you asked me to. Not for that thing that speaks through you but  _ you!"  _ The muted buzz of the air vent hums between them as Spencer catches himself. He scrubs a hand over his mouth, voice forcefully calm as he finds the words. “My loyalty to you has never been an obligation, Brendon. I love and respect you. Sometimes I’m scared for you. I just...wish you’d let me in.”

Brendon looks smaller than he ever has, more alone even as the walls feel like they’re closing in, but he still steps closer. He takes a quick glance at his hands before holding Spencer’s gaze. His voice waivers but pushes through it. “Sometimes we feel like strangers...and it’s partly my fault but you’re right. I should be more open with you.” The hairs at Spencer’s neck prickle at his presence in a way they never have before and a white-hot pressure begins to build in his chest. “I’m not who I was when we first met, just as you’re not, and I’ll give you this for tonight. Carden and I were part of the same coven here in Chicago, and though I can’t speak for him, I was there against my will. And all those years I was there, I was a monster. I’m dead to those I loved and loved me because of it. Mike Carden never knew me, and whatever he says can’t hurt me. But I need you to know that I’m not that monster, Spencer.”

The pressure in Spencer’s chest dissolves to an ache that spreads over his skin. There’s something new in Brendon’s eyes that grounds him. Vulnerability makes him more captivating. “You’re not a monster. You’re an amazing teacher and kindest person I’ve ever met.” He clears his throat because, Jesus, this ache is unbearable.  “That  Brendon is just a scary story and I’m not afraid of him. The one in front of me is completely ridiculous but I know he’s not that monster.”

A smile finally appears and Spencer thinks he’s been shot. It’s not so much as happy as it is relief. There’s a ringing in Spencer’s ears now and he can’t quite hear Brendon parrot that it’s just a scary story. He’s lost in that new spark in Brendon’s milky eyes that only he can’t make out. He’s not even sure he really asks where Brendon is from now that he’s sure Brendon isn’t native to the Windy City. He feels his mouth move but not sure words actually came out until Brendon smirks fondly. He reaches up, resting his fingers against the side of Spencer’s neck.

The world goes quiet. There’s calm. The ache is gone, replaced with a peace Spencer’s never felt before. 

Brendon must feel it too as he goes  silent , chewing his lip. He presses his fingers gently. “I was from Vegas. Just a guy from the desert.” 

Relief swims down Spencer’s spine, but it’s peculiar when the source is from where Brendon’s hand rests against his  skin. His lip quirks in way that asks if Spencer’s with him, and holy shit, he absolutely is, feels the answer on pure instinct. This is real, too new for Brendon to have any answers for him and too consumed by shock at this raw connection to go full throttle with it. Spencer feels like the safest place in the world but he can’t lose control. The thought of hurting him makes Brendon nauseous. 

He settles to pull Spencer closer and secures an arm around Spencer’s shoulders and sinks into his arms, engulfed with that same peace he’s sure  he’ ll develop an addiction to. The anxiety he’d felt for days bleeds out of him and he lets himself be swallowed in Spencer’s scent. It now feels deeper and the need for constant contact feels as strong as his thirst. He could get used to this, and it’s why he hates that he needs to step back.

Spencer’s arms trail after him and keeps a loose grip on his shoulder to chase that contact and Brendon can’t help grin at his eagerness. “I’m not ignoring this, Spence. Promise.” he assures. “And I’m not pushing you away. I need a minute in the shower. I don’t want this blood in the bed with us.”

Spencer blinks, buries that fear at Brendon’s promise . There something  bright in his eyes and  a sort of satisfaction that settles in his bones. It’s concrete. Spencer trusts him.

He still hesitates to part with him and break the conta ct, but it’s easier when he catches the reluctance  in the crease of Brendon’s brows and the way his fingers  press against his skin to  get another hit of that spark before backing off.  Brendon throws him another glance and the softest smile Spencer’s ever seen before he  disappears behind the bathroom door . 

Busying himself with routine is futile. Muscle memory carries him through drawing the drapes and folding his spent clothes away for fresh sweats. His thoughts wander when he sets out a clean shirt for Brendon on the bed and finds himself spacing out, frozen where he stands and losing himself in the steady patter of water falling against his skin. Heavy steam fills his lungs followed by the feather-light itch of a hotel towel and he feels the gratitude blooming in his chest before Brendon even says a thank you for the clean clothes.

It’s a funny thing: this connection. These thoughts, these feelings, are only clear for a moment before fading away and replaced with a new one. The idea of physical contact forms and he’s entertaining it to reach out before he feels Brendon’s fingers brushing against his. Brendon’s faint tug on his hand breaks the spell, meeting his imploring gaze. He knows the answer before Brendon voices the question. 

“Yeah, sorry. I just...” He follows the pull of Brendon’s hand and slips under the duvet. Brendon looks smaller now, as close as he is. Spencer assists in pulling the duvet over their heads. A habit of Brendon’s is now Spencer’s. He was always so careful. 

In the dark, Brendon watches him. Spencer doesn’t buckle under the gravity of it when he knows he’s being studied. “I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Brendon mutters. “Is that terrible of me to say?” 

“No, B.” 

Spencer is strangely calm about this, taking Brendon by surprise that this is a battle he’s chosen not to fight. He lingers on the edges of Brendon’s senses, waiting for permission as Spencer has always done and replacing the image Brendon had made of him that he’s starting to realize is obsolete. The man in his bed looks like Spencer, smells like Spencer, and whatever this is  is destroying everything he knows about him. “I remember how blue your eyes were.” he finally says. Spencer blinks. “They’re really hard to forget.”

Something chokes in Spencer’s throat, watches Brendon swallow it back into submission. Was that meant to stay private? Brendon is sharing more? 

“I miss yours too.” Spencer hopes this is the right door Brendon’s opened for him. “You were easier to read.” It must be the right door as Brendon shifts closer. The ache returns. Brendon holds his gaze as Spencer rests his fingers against the crook of his arm until that blanket of calm returns.

“I. ..I still can be.” Brendon doesn’t know what he’s pitching or why. “The small things turn out to be the most important, huh? If there was a way to--”

Spencer gives his arm a careful squeeze. “It’s not something you need to waste your energy on. We lose some but we have all we need.”

He’s a breath away. He fixates on a small patch of bare skin, half-hidden through the fine brush of Spencer’s beard.  _ Is it a scar _ , he wonders,  _ how long has that been there?  _ Where has Spencer been all this time? Who has he been looking at all this time?

Spencer takes the initiative and closes that gap. He first notices that Brendon’s lips are chapped. Brendon grins like he knows how bad it is but doesn’t pull away this time. He lingers like something has finally settled and Spencer lets out a breath of relief. It’s always been dormant, easily dismissed since that first night he felt Brendon’s teeth deep in his throat. Fear had suppressed it in the beginning that Brendon was too distant and possibly centuries out of his league and soon dismissed it altogether after he died and shifted his focus to learning all he could. The distraction was so good he’d almost forgotten until  _ it _ showed up. And it showed him things. It reminded him of things.

This kiss isn’t passionate by any means. Brendon’s fingers rest on his wrist but they aren’t gripping for purchase. It’s a hello. This new connection solidifies and it feels like he’s meeting Brendon for the first time. There is no fear and certainly not the hunger and anger from their massacre in the glass townhouse. This is warmth, acceptance, and the first taste of joy he’s had in years. 

The pads of Brendon’s fingers press tentatively against Spencer’s wrist. Spencer is willing to let himself be carried by the tide of Brendon’s joy but it’s Brendon’s teeth that pull him back as they slice Spencer’s lip and the purr that follows forges something almost molten hot in the pit of Spencer’s stomach. The hunger that grabs Spencer’s attention isn’t his own. He’s sure of it, and it’s way too close to sunrise to even entertain it. 

Brendon tries to follow Spencer’s lips as he pulls away but the effort is wasted as he blinks slowly with sleep. The gash on his lip stitches itself back together as Spencer rests their foreheads together and memorizes this new scent. The corners of Brendon’s mouth turn upward.

“I’m not going anywhere either.” Spencer assures him. “We’ve got nothing but time.” He matches Brendon’s tired grin, swallows down the cheeky retort Brendon had briefly considered. He doesn’t want to be too hasty. “Do you know what this is? Have you ever felt anything like this?”

Brendon hums in response, taking in a deep lungful of Spencer’s scent before settling against the pillow. Spencer’s question is important to him. Fuck, Spencer is the only thing important to him. Fog creeps into his brain but he fights the drowsiness to give him an honest answer.

“No, Spence.” he mumbles. “I have a hunch, and I can guess or I can be certain. I wanna be certain.”

It’s Spencer’s turn to give him a pleased purr, rumbling low in his throat. It’s all new and he certainly won’t smother Brendon  with  questions he doesn’t have the answers to. For now, he can study these new instincts, memorize and categorize Brendon’s mannerisms with fresh eyes.

Spencer can hear the pull of the sunrise dragging on Brendon’s voice. “We can’t stay, Spence, and I’m not just saying that for me, but  _ us _ . For all I’ve burdened you with, I can’t let my reputation here bring you down too.” Regret leaves a sour taste in Spencer’s mouth and he isn’t sure yet if it’s his or Brendon’s. He’ll need to learn to separate the two moving forward.

“Give me a day or two to figure out the logistics.” he offers as Brendon begins to doze off. “You just have to say where.”

Brendon curls against his shoulder and hums at the contact but Spencer can just make out “somewhere west” before he goes still and cold. Spencer is running on fumes as he resists the early rays of morning but a plan forms in his head. Something to keep them moving. He pictures open spaces and room to explore. He imagines the quiet and the wide, wide sky. He’ll protect them. He won’t let Brendon down again.

-

Brendon had consumed all of the dock workers that had taken an unfortunate smoke break on their night shift, taking them one by one when they’d come around to investigate when their co-worker went over their time. Spencer stands guard, silencing their screams as Brendon fed without interruption until the gaping wound in his chest began to close. Spencer had felt it; the sharp pierce of the tip breaking skin and ripping through muscle and bone. He’d felt Brendon’s paralyzed terror and soft patter of raindrops on his cheeks that he couldn’t wipe away. He can feel Brendon’s desperate, primal thirst to heal and the ache at the center of his chest.

It’s all there, nagging at the back of his brain behind the subsiding rage that simmers under Spencer’s skin. It could be adrenaline. There’s still blood under his fingernails.

Brendon was right. This city is poison.

He glances back as Brendon finishes. He looks feral as the blood coats his chin, lacking any of his usual grace in feeding, but some of Spencer’s tension melts as he watches Brendon cradle the body. Spencer should be disgusted at the sight of his maker lingering around an empty husk, but he watches curiously. The last of them was the driver, hauling an overnight shipment of prime cuts and couldn’t make a sound quick enough before Brendon had a grip on her ankle and dragged her back into the truck’s dark depths. Spencer only glanced at the manifest forgotten in the struggle. Brendon is still slow to stand, aching in the worst way but sturdy. Brendon’s gratitude floods along Spencer’s nerves, and for a second, vanity gets the best of him and he’s about to brush it off as just looking out for his maker, but Brendon isn’t looking at him. His eyes linger on the body of his victim. He’s careful to conceal the wounds he’d left on her throat and drapes her arms over her waist.

“Bren, I…” Spencer finally says, but the words dissolve in his throat. There are no excuses for what he let happen to Brendon, what he could’ve prevented. The shame must stink something awful when Brendon looks at him and reaches out for his wrist. Spencer’s nerves screamed for him and he can no longer silence the need now that Brendon is lucid again. 

Brendon grips his hand for support as he gets to his feet. The ache in Spencer’s chest is almost blinding and he wants to soothe the raw skin under the spent and bloodied linen of Brendon’s shirt, but he’s stopped when Brendon pushes his hand away. “You were there. You came for me and that’s all that matters.”

“ But…”

“Spencer,” he sighs. His eyes slip shut as he grasps Spencer’s fingers. The exhaustion weighs on him and forces Spencer to submit. “You came for me. Please don’t beat yourself up anymore. It’s nauseating.”

There must be more,  Spencer thinks. He was so close to losing him .  Where would he be without Brendon ? Where was the punishment he deserved? 

“Please tell me what I can do for you. Whatever you need, whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.” Spencer pleads .  His lip quivers , and if he couldn’t read the pity on Brendon’s face, Spencer could certainly feel it. He needs orders. He needs to see the anger he’s been waiting for . 

Brendon only brings him closer, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. “I’ve been through worse, Spence. You came back for me and I don’t give a shit about anything else, alright?” he assures. Spencer’s anxiety sends shivers down his spine and this isn’t enough despite Spencer’s eager nods. He’s waiting for instruction, but the thing is, Brendon's never needed a soldier. He needs his best friend. His chest tightens with Spencer’s instinctual need to please his maker tainted with bitter guilt. Spencer wasn’t at-fault for what happened to him. Brendon isn’t sure Spencer can handle the hard truth of who did this and why. His eyes are desperate. “I don’t care what it’ll cost. Get us the soonest flight or train out of here. Can you do that for us?”

Spencer’s careful not to touch the sensitive wound when he presses closer into Brendon’s space, holding him possessively and assuring himself it’s all real. He nods eagerly, cradling Brendon as if he weren’t the most lethal thing in the city. Brendon sinks into him taking a deep lungful of Spencer’s shirt. The stench of his stale blood only lasts a moment before the leather of Spencer’s suitcase and his own shampoo come through all of the other mess and gutter. Something about it feels stable. Navigating this connection has not been easy by any means, but it’s always there, humming in the background and waiting for them to fall back on. Brendon hasn’t been keen taking to it as eagerly as Spencer has. He’s learned over the years that nothing good has come from a voice in his head besides his own, and just as conflicted when the voice has a body, eyes he can look into and read. From day one, Spencer’s kept his feet on the ground. His voice has challenged him, argued with him at almost every step, but it backed down at Brendon’s request. Spencer’s needs and feelings were secondary to his own. Spencer’s presence wasn’t dominating. Who would he become if he truly let it in?


End file.
